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MORGAN  ROBERTSON 
THE  MAN 


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MORGAN  ROBERTSON 
THE  MAN 


PUBLISHED  BY 

McCLURE'S  MAGAZINE 

AND 

METROPOLITAN  MAGAZINE 


COPYKIGHT,   1915,  BY 

METROPOLITAN  MAGAZINE 
Nbw  York 


PREFACE 

This  is  a  little  book  about  a  big  man.     Within 

the  past  year  thousands  have  come  to  know  Morgan 

Robertson's  stories.     Old  admirers  have  renewed  the 

charm  of  his  work  in  a  new  and  more  befitting  dress 

than  the  fleeting  pages  of  a  magazine.     For  these 

old  and  new  friends  this  book  was  published,  in  the 

hope  that  it  would  warm  you  to  a  man  who  gave  you 

many  enjoyable  hours.    Not  one  side  of  his  complex 

personality  was  spared.     In  this  book  is  Morgan 

Robertson  with  all  his  weaknesses  and  foibles  and  all 

the  other  things,  too,  that  made  him  a  big  man  and 

a  good  friend. 

THE  EDITOR. 


*r-  VL^  -^  O  O  O 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

From  personal  experience  I  have  learned  two 
things — the  rapaciousness  of  mother-in-laws  and  the 
self-centeredness  of  professional  writers  are  two 
things  that  exist  only  in  comic  (sic)  papers.  As  the 
country  man  said  of  the  camel,  "  they  ain't  no  sich 
animal  "  in  real  life. 

It  has  been  my  pleasurable  experience  to  see  a 
dream  realized — to  see  the  genius  of  Morgan  Robert- 
son recognized  by  his  countrymen  and  to  see  his 
widow  benefit  from  that  recognition.  In  no  small  meas- 
ure was  this  success  reached  by  the  hearty  and  will- 
ing commendations  publicly  made  by  some  of  the  big- 
gest men  in  Morgan  Robertson's  craft.  They  knew 
the  depth  of  Morgan  Robertson's  genius.  They  in- 
vited the  reading  public  to  sit  in  and  enjoy  the  good 
things  they  had  tasted.  For  Morgan  Robertson  and 
for  every  new  reader  of  his  stories  I  acknowledge  his 
and  their  thanks  to 

Booth  Tarkington  Finley  Peter  Dunne 

Robert  W.  Chambers  Henry  Reuterdahl 

Irv'in  S.  Cobb  Wilham  Dean  Howells 

George  Horace  Lorimer  Bozeman  Bulger 

Richard  Harding  Davis  J.  O'Neill 

Joseph  Conrad  Charles  Somerville 

Robert  H.  Davis  John  Kendrick  Bangs 

Rex  Beach  Arthur  T.  Vance 


It  would  be  amiss  not  to  mention  here  the  follow- 
ing publishing  houses  who  graciously  surrendered 
their  book  rights  to  Morgan  Robertson  in  this  effort : 

Doubleday,  Page  &  Co., 
Century  Company. 

Thanks  are  also  acknowledged  to  the  publishers  of 
the  various  periodicals  and  magazines  mentioned  in 
this  book  who  courteously  permitted  the  publication 
of  articles  in  this  volume  that  originally  appeared  in 
their  publications. 

J.  B.  K. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


MouGAN  Robertson        .        .  Frontispiece 

Morgan  Robertson,  Shipmate         ...        1 

Gathering  No  Moss — An  Autobiography     .        6 

Sidelights  on  Morgan  Robertson.     By  Seth 
Moyle 38 

My    Skirmish    with    Madness.     By    Morgan 
Robertson 4f5 

Morgan  Robertson,  Hero.    By  J.  O'Neill       .     69 

The  Art  of  Morgan  Robertson.     By  Charles 
Hanson  Towne  ......      87 

The  Morgan  Robertson  I  Knew.     By  Arthur 
T.  Vance 9^ 

The    Psychic    Mystery    of    His    Time.     By 
Henry  W.  Francis 99 

Morgan  Robertson,  the  Man.     By  Bozeman 
Bulger 103 

Morgan  Robertson.    By  Arthur  B.  Maurice  .    116 

The  Man  I  Knew.    By  Grace  Miller  White     .    120 

Morgan  Robertson's  Famous  Recipes     .        .    12^9 


MORGAN  ROBERTSON 
THE  MAN 


MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  SHIPMATE 

One  of  the  original  subscribers  to  the  first  edition 
of  Morgan  Robertson's  books  was  an  American  Con- 
sular Agent  in  Japan.  With  his  subscription  he  sent 
a  letter  mentioning  that  thirty  years  ago  Morgan 
Robertson  and  he  were  ship-mates.  Scenting  an  in- 
teresting story,  we  invited  the  writer  to  tell  Morgan 
Robertson's  admirers  of  the  voyage  and  what  he 
remembered  of  Morgan  Robertson,  then  a  young 
sailor.  This  interesting  article  was  the  answer.  At 
the  request  of  the  author  his  name  is  withheld. 

MORGAN  ROBERTSON  and  myself  were  ship- 
mates in  the  American  ship  Sunrise,  Captain 
Clark,  in  the  early  eighties,  from  New  York  for 
Hongkong.  You  will  find  part  of  this  voyage  de- 
scribed in  "  Masters  of  Men,"  although  for  purposes 
of  his  own  Morgan  Robertson  has  advanced  the  time 
some  sixteen  or  seventeen  years,  also  worked  in  two 
naval  people.  The  tragedy  of  the  carpenter  and  the 
cook  actually  occurred  and  is  not  a  bit  overdrawn, 
and  is  only  one  of  the  many  incidents  that  occurred 
on  this  voyage.  I  disagree  with  him  in  one  thing 
only,  and  that  is  the  food.  The  food  on  this  vessel 
was  really  good.  The  skipper  was  the  hardest  propo- 
sition that  ever  went  captain  of  an  American  mer- 
chant vessel.  The  mates — of  whom  more,  farther  on 
— were  two  of  the  greatest  brutes  unhung. 


2        MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

1  was  only  sixteen  years  old  at  the  time.  Morgan 
Robertson  was  about  twenty-three  or  twenty-four, 
as  near  as  I  can  recollect.  He  was  a  good  sailor, 
and  was  picked  for  one  of  the  quartermasters  when 
the  ship  left  New  York. 

It  was  my  first  voyage  to  sea.  A  young  Irish  boy 
from  Brooklyn — Jimmy  Riley — and  myself  joined  the 
ship  about  a  week  before  she  sailed.  We  loaded  case 
oil  on  the  South  Brooklyn  side  of  the  river,  and  on 
completion  of  the  loading  dropped  down  to  Staten 
Island,  one  cold  winter's  day,  and  anchored.  The 
crew  came  on  board  early  the  next  morning,  Morgan 
Robertson  with  them,  and  my  attention  was  first 
drawn  to  him  by  the  fact  that  he  was  one  of  the 
few  that  were  sober  and  ready  to  turn  to.  There  was 
only  one  other  American  besides  him  in  the  crew,  a 
man  named  Daly,  whose  picture  is  very  well  drawn  in 
the  Sawyer,  in  "  Masters  of  Men."  Two  minutes 
after  the  crew  had  come  aboard  I  thought  Hell  had 
broken  loose.  The  mates  pitched  into  them  and,  by 
hammering  them  that  could  stand,  and  playing  the 
hose  on  those  that  were  unable  to  do  so,  in  about 
twenty  minutes  they  had  that  crew  in  shape  to  turn 
to.  The  first  mate  was  a  Down  Easter,  named  Col- 
son  ;  the  second  mate  was  an  Irishman,  named  Nolan. 
He  came  from  Belfast,  but  hailed  from  Paris,  Ken- 
tucky, although  he  had  never  been  there  and  only 
had  a  hazy  notion  as  to  where  it  was.  His  reason 
for  hailing  from  Paris,  Kentucky,  was  that  every 
Dutchman  that  came  over  hailed  from  New  York,  and 
he  wanted  to  hail  from  somewhere  else.     They  were 


MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  SHIPMATE        3 

two  brutes ;  also,  probably  as  fine  specimens  of  sea- 
men as  you  would  find  anywhere. 

Although  that  morning  there  was  not  a  sail  bent, 
three  topgallant  masts  housed,  jib-boom  rigged  in, 
all  the  heavy  stores  around  the  deck  because  there 
had  been  no  time  to  stow  them  below,  and  most  of 
the  crew  more  or  less  helpless  on  account  of  their 
recent  debauch  on  shore ;  nevertheless  at  four  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon  we  were  towing  down  the  bay  bound 
for  Hongkong.  I  did  not  appreciate  this  feat  of 
seamanship  at  the  time,  but  I  did  so  in  later  yea.TS. 

The  crew  were  the  usual  collection  and  conglomera- 
tion of  foreigners  that  gathered  in  the  forecastles 
of  American  ships  thirty  years  ago.  Riley  and  my- 
self lived  in  the  boys'  room  in  the  after  end  of  the 
forward  house.  Probably  because  it  was  more  con- 
genial, both  Morgan  Robertson  and  Daly  spent  much 
of  their  spare  time  in  the  dog-watches  with  us. 
Morgan  Robertson  was  called  "  Shorty  "  and  "  Bib  " 
on  board.  He  was  a  good,  smart  sailor  and,  as 
already  stated,  the  captain  picked  him  for  one  of 
the  quartermasters  before  we  got  to  Sandy  Hook. 
He  was  in  the  mate's  watch,  while  I  was  in  the  second 
mate's.  He  was  a  good  "  yamer,"  and  I  can  still 
remember  many  of  his  stories,  some  of  which  I  can 
even  now  recognize  worked  into  various  stories.  He 
also,  at  times,  recited  poetry.  I  recollect  one  poem, 
about  an  old  New  Jersey  deacon,  who  after  his  death 
reached  the  gates  of  Heaven,  and,  being  impressed 
with  his  own  importance,  demanded  admission  as 
follows : 


4        MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

"  Open  wide  the  gates  of  Heaven,  Uncle  Gabriel  blow 
your  horn; 
Here  comes  one  with  sins  forgiven,  here  comes  one 
that's  newly  born." 

However,  the  gates  are  not  thrown  open,  and 
after  a  long  time  St.  Peter  opens  the  little  window 
and  asks  the  cause  of  all  the  disturbance.  The 
deacon  again  demands  admission,  although  he  has 
shrunk  considerably  in  size.  St.  Peter  then  reminds 
him  of  all  the  mean  things  that  he  has  done  and 
forgotten,  and  gradually  the  deacon  gets  smaller  and 
smaller,  and  is  about  to  take  the  road  to  down  below, 
when  St.  Peter  takes  pity  on  him  and  opens  the  gate 
the  fraction  of  an  inch,  through  which  the  deacon 
just  manages  to  squeeze. 

I  do  not  know  whether  this  poem  was  original  with 
"  Shorty,"  or  whether  he  read  it  somewhere  and 
memorized  it.  I  have  often  wished  that  I  could  get 
the  whole  of  this  poem  again. 

However,  as  a  rule  we  were  too  tired  to  do  much 

more  than  lie  around  and  talk  in  the  dog-watch.    The 

Sunrise  was  a  hard  ship.     There  was  no  afternoon 

watch  below  and  very  often  no  morning  watch  either, 

which  meant  that  if  you  got  an  average  of  six  hours 

sleep  out  of  the  twenty-four  you  were  lucky.     Also, 

there  were  no  opportunities  for  a  quiet  "  calk  "  on 

deck  in  the  night  time.    The  watch  were  kept  on  their 

feet  at  the  break  of  the  poop,  while  we  boys— one  of 

us  in  each  watch— were  kept  on  the  lee  side  of  the 

poop  under  still  closer  supervision.    Riley  and  myself 


MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  SHIPMATE        5 

were  the  only  ones  of  the  crew  forward  who  made  the 
voyage.  The  rest  of  the  crew,  "Shorty"  among 
them,  were  either  paid  off  or  ran  away  in  Hongkong. 
I  saw  him  but  once  afterwards  and  that  was  in  1889, 
in  New  York,  at  which  time  he  told  me  that  he  was 
second  mate  of  a  barquentine,  bound  on  a  voyage 
to  Matanzas,  Cuba. 

I  left  New  York  in  1891,  and  did  not  return  there 
until  1913.  In  the  meantime  I  had  read  a  number 
of  his  books,  the  first  one  published  by  Harpers 
years  ago.  It  was  not,  however,  until  I  read  "  Mas- 
ters of  Men  "  that  I  recognized  my  old  shipmate.  I 
always  thought  of  writing  and  getting  into  touch 
with  him,  but  sailorlike  kept  putting  it  off.  Two 
years  ago  I  came  home  to  New  York  on  a  visit, 
the  first  in  twenty-two  years.  I  thought  of  making 
inquiries,  but  there  was  so  much  to  see — so  much 
that  had  changed — that  it  kept  me  busy  for  a  month, 
at  the  end  of  which  time  I  was  suddenly  recalled 
by  a  cable. 

When  I  saw  your  announcement  last  February,  I 
wrote  you  for  his  address,  which  you  kindly  sent 
me,  but  almost  immediately  after  I  noticed  the  ac- 
count of  his  death  in  the  New  York  Times. 


GATHERING  NO  MOSS 

AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

This  is  Morgan  Robertson's  life  story,  as  he  wrote 
it  himself.  Published  in  the  "  Saturday  Evening 
Post,"  it  attracted  attention  all  over  the  country. 
Booth  Tarkington  considered  it  one  of  the  best  things 
Morgan  Robertson  ever  did.  The  publication  of 
this  remarkable  document  was  the  inspiration  for  the 
plan  launched  a  few  months  later  by  the  "  Metro- 
politan "  and  "  McClure's  "  to  give  Morgan  Robert- 
son the  recognition  and  reward  that  had  been  so  long 
denied  him. 

T  PUT  in  ten  years  at  sea  before  the  mast.  Ten 
•■-  more  years  I  served  as  a  diamond-setter.  I  have 
been  an  inventor.  In  addition  to  this  I  have  written 
more  than  two  hundred  short  stories.  My  name  has 
appeared  as  author  of  stories  in  every  leading  maga- 
zine in  the  United  States  and  frequently  in  the 
English  periodicals.  The  editor  will  recall  that  nine- 
teen of  my  stories  appeared  in  this  publication — a 
fact  I  cite  to  prove  that  my  literary  work  reached 
a  pretty  good  standard  of  quality. 

I  have  had  published  fourteen  books,  none  of  which 
retailed  for  less  than  a  dollar.  I  frequently  go  into 
public  libraries  and  see  my  fourteen  volumes  strung 
out  in  a  row.  I  go  to  these  libraries  for  books  be- 
cause I  have  not  enough  money  to  buy  one.     I  am 

6 


GATHERING  NO  MOSS  7 

broke!  I  am  the  rolling  stone  that  gathered  no 
moss. 

I  am  not  a  spendthrift — never  have  been  one.  I 
have  never  lived  expensively — have  never  been  able  to. 
The  only  dress  suit  I  have  ever  owned  I  still  have. 
I  never  wear  it  nowadays,  because  I  have  not  the 
things  to  go  with  it.  In  other  words,  I  cannot  live 
up  to  it.  I  am  simply  improvident — a  poor  business 
man.  I  have  never  made  five  thousand  dollars  in  a 
single  year. 

I  still  write,  but  I  have  trouble  in  selling.  I  fear 
that  I  am  a  sponge  squeezed  dry. 

I  did  not  begin  to  write  until  I  was  thirty-six  years 
old,  and  that  was  a  long  time  ago.  I  began  then — 
as  I  have  begun  everything — because  I  needed  the 
money.  After  many  years  of  what  my  friends  are 
pleased  to  call  a  successful  literary  career  I  am  in  the 
same  fix  as  when  I  started.  As  a  literary  rolling 
stone  it  is  likely  I  have  gained  some  polish,  but  just 
enough  to  make  me  feel  the  lack  of  the  moss.  That, 
I  fear,  I  shall  never  have. 

The  responsibility  for  my  having  been  an  author 
is  shared  by  two  men — a  newspaper  reporter  and 
Rudyard  Kipling.  The  former  suggested  to  me  that, 
as  I  had  been  a  sailor,  I  might  be  interested  in  a 
sea  story  written  by  the  latter.  He  handed  me  a  copy 
of  a  magazine  containing  Kipling's  story  and  urged 
me  to  read  it.  While  riding  home  on  an  elevated 
train  in  New  York,  after  having  spent  one  nickel  of 
my  last  quarter,  I  did  so. 

Up  to  that  time  I  had  never  read  much  fiction  and 


8        MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

became  intensely  interested,  noting  with  impatience  in 
one  or  two  instances  where  the  author  had  made  slight 
mistakes  in  naming  certain  parts  of  a  ship's  rigging. 
But  that  story  inspired  me.  I  was  out  of  a  job 
because  the  failure  of  my  eyes  had  forced  me  to  give 
up  my  work  as  a  diamond-setter. 

"  If  a  man  who  has  never  worked  at  sea  can  write 
a  story  like  that  " — I  could  tell  from  certain  phrase- 
ology that  he  had  never  been  a  sailor — "  and  get 
money  for  it,"  I  thought,  "  why  couldn't  I,  a  man  of 
actual  experience,  write  one?  " 

On  my  walk  from  the  train  to  my  little  flat  on 
Washington  Heights,  where  a  frugal  dinner  of  corned 
beef  and  cabbage  awaited  me,  I  thought  of  nothing 
but  Kipling's  story.  It  fascinated  me.  It  was  the 
first  story  I  had  ever  read  without  a  love  affair  in  it. 

Maybe,  I  thought,  here  is  the  chance  for  escape 
from  the  hardships  of  tramping  from  place  to  place, 
looking  for  a  job. 

As  I  neared  home  an  idea  came  to  me  for  a  story 
of  my  own.  It  was  suggested  by  Kipling's,  it  is 
true,  but  it  was  not  an  imitation.  His  was  a  story 
of  strong  men  up  against  a  problem  of  life  or  death, 
fighting  it  out.  My  story  was  of  a  tramp,  a  good- 
for-nothing  Jack-of-all-trades  and  master  of  none, 
who,  caught  on  an  icebound  and  dismasted  barge  in 
a  winter  storm  on  Lake  Erie,  rigged  a  jury  foremast 
and  sailed  her  into  Buffalo.  I  had  spent  many  years 
as  a  sailor  on  the  Great  Lakes  and  knew  the  at- 
mosphere. 
,      At  dinner  I  was  so  absorbed  in  my  new  thought 


GATHERING  NO  MOSS  9 

that  I  answered  mj  wife  in  monosyllables  and  actually 
bolted  my  food — so  anxious  was  I  to  get  at  my  story. 

While  my  wife  was  clearing  off  the  table  I  went 
into  the  kitchen  and,  using  the  covered  washtubs  for 
a  desk,  began  to  write  with  the  stub  of  a  pencil  on 
the  backs  of  a  stack  of  circulars  1  was  to  have  dis- 
tributed. On  and  on  through  the  night  I  wrote  until 
I  had  finished  the  story  of  eight  thousand  words  just 
before  daylight.  Long  before  that  my  wife  had  gone 
to  bed  and  left  me  to  my  new  whim,  as  she  regarded 
it.  I  slept  but  two  or  three  hours  and  then  did  not 
rest  well,  so  impatient  was  I  to  get  downtown  with 
my  story. 

At  noon  I  hunted  up  my  newspaper  friend  and 
told  him  what  I  had  done.  He  granted  me  the  use 
of  his  typewriter  for  transcribing.  Up  to  that  time 
I  had  never  had  my  hands  on  a  typewriting  machine, 
but  I  was  determined-  In  two  days  I  painfully 
picked  out  a  transcription  of  my  story,  which  natur- 
ally was  ragged  with  errors  and  misplaced  letters.  I 
did  not  aspire  to  the  magazines  then,  but  took  my 
painfully  typed  story  to  a  newspaper  syndicate,  the 
editor  of  which  received  me  most  courteously.  He 
assured  me  if  I  could  suit  him  he  would  pay  as  high 
as  two  cents  a  word-  Two  cents  a  word !  That 
meant  one  hundred  and  sixty  dollars  ! 

I  went  home  glorified  and  waited  a  week — two 
weeks — three  weeks;  and  then  I  called  on  the  editor 
of  the  syndicate.  He  had  forgotten  me,  but  said  if 
I  had  left  a  story  with  him  I  should  hear  about  it 
through  the  mails.     I  waited  another  week,  while  the 


10   MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

butcher,  the  grocer,  the  landlord,  and  the  wolf  as- 
sailed my  door — then  called  again  on  the  editor.  He 
glared  at  me  while  informing  me  that  my  story 
would  receive  due  attention,  and  again  said  that  I 
should  hear  from  him  through  the  mails.  I  waited  two 
more  weeks  and  called  again. 

"  Here  I  am ! "  I  announced.  "  And  I  want  to 
know  whether  or  not  you  want  my  story." 

Unconsciously  I  was  talking  like  a  sailor.  He 
looked  up  from  his  desk  as  though  I  had  insulted  him, 
then  let  out  a  roar.  He  would  have  made  a  good 
second  mate,  that  editor ;  he  was  big  and  strong  and 
self-confident. 

"  Albert ! "  he  called  in  a  voice  that  would  have 
reached  from  the  poop-deck  to  the  foretopgallant- 
yard.  "  Drop  whatever  you  are  doing  and  get  this — 
gentleman — his  story.  And  give  it  to  him.  Hear 
me  ?     Give  it  to  him  !  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  Albert,  then  a  young  stenog- 
rapher but  now  a  successful  banker ;  and  he  ran  down 
the  long  line  of  desks  while  I  paced  up  and  down, 
with  a  tingling  at  the  roots  of  my  hair.  Then  Albert 
came  back. 

"  What  is  the  name  of  the  story?  "  he  asked. 

"  The  Destruction  of  the  Unfit,"  I  answered  in  as 
loud  a  voice  as  my  lungs  and  anger  would  give  me. 
"  And  my  name  is " 

"  Hold  on ! "  interrupted  the  big  editor,  rising  to 
his  feet.  "  Did  you  write  that  story — '  The  Destruc- 
tion of  the  Unfit'.?" 

"  I  did." 


GATHERING  NO  MOSS  11 

"  Sit  down,  sir,"  he  said  more  kindly.  "  I  beg 
your  pardon.  I  do  recognize  you  now,  but  I  had 
lost  remembrance  of  you  in  the  rush  of  business  here. 
I  remember  your  giving  me  that  story  and  I  assure 
you  I  gave  it  a  prompt  reading.  Though  I  recog- 
nized its  worth  at  the  first  page  I  knew  it  was  too 
long  for  my  syndicate  and  sent  it  back  to  the  editor 
of  the  magazine."  He  explained  to  me  that  the 
syndicate  and  one  of  the  big  magazines  were  op- 
erated under  the  same  general  management.  "  It 
must  be  there  yet,"  he  said.  "  Just  sit  here  and 
I'll  get  track  of  it."  So  I  sat  while  Albert  resumed 
his  work,  and  that  big  editor  spent  half  an  hour 
hunting  up  my  story.    At  last  he  appeared. 

"  Your  story  has  received  the  approval  of  every 
member  of  the  editorial  staff  except  the  editor-in- 
chief,"  he  said;  "  and  his  objection  is  that  it  violates 
all  the  rules  of  fiction  writing." 

I  asked  him  whether  he  had  read  it  through  and 
he  said  he  had.  I  then  asked  him  why  he  had  read 
it  and  his  reply  was : 

"  Because  I  wanted  to  know  how  it  came  out." 

"Isn't  that  all  you  want  in  a  story?"  I  asked, 
unable  to  understand  the  fine  points  of  the  writing 
game.     He  gave  me  no  satisfactory  answer. 

"  But  " — and  the  big  man  clapped  me  on  the  back 
— "  your  story  will  go.  Just  wait !  A  story  that 
an  editor  will  read  to  the  end  usually  has  a  chance." 

I  went  home  more  glorified  than  ever.  Was  it 
possible,  I  asked  of  myself,  that  I  was  to  become  an 
author.?     Could  I  teach,  preach,  tell  my  fellow-men 


12   MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

what  I  knew,  and  sign  ray  name  in  print?  I  could 
hardly  believe  it;  yet,  if  so,  a  wonderful  career  had 
opened  up  for  me — a  career  full  of  effort  and  en- 
deavor, of  honor,  of  esteem,  of  position  and  acclaim — 
a  career  in  which  work  was  no  longer  an  expenditure 
of  energy  to  be  followed  by  bodily  fatigue.  Work 
was  to  be  a  delight,  a  pleasure,  a  fruition.  And  in 
this  frame  of  mind,  with  empty  pockets  and  an  empty 
stomach,  I  met  that  big  editor  a  few  days  later  on 
the  street. 

"  Come  in  here,"  he  said,  "  and  have  a  drink  with 
me.  I  want  to  tell  you  something."  I  followed  him 
in,  and  across  a  round  table  we  talked. 

"  You  are  up  against  the  hardest  game  a  human 
being  ever  tackled,"  he  began.  "  Statistics  have  been 
compiled  which  show  that  tons  of  ink,  tons  of  paper, 
and  miles  of  typewriter  ribbons  are  wasted  each  year 
by  would-be  writers — for  nothing.  You  have  written 
one  good  story  and  it  will  probably  be  accepted; 
but  you  have  wasted  nearly  two  months  in  the  effort. 
Is  it  worth  while .f*  Can  you  keep  it  up?  I  can't, 
and  I  have  been  writing  with  more  or  less  success 
for  thirty  years. 

"  Now,  as  I  understand  it,  you  want  to  make  a 
living.  You  need  money  and  to  get  it  you  are  willing 
to  work.  Well,  strike  out !  Make  out  a  list  of  busi- 
ness houses  that  might  give  you  work  and  go  the 
rounds  every  day.  Present  yourself  again  and  again 
to  the  business  heads  and  repeat  the  formula:  'I 
want  work.'  I  assure  you  that  in  a  week's  time  you'll 
get  it." 


GATHERING  NO  MOSS  13 

I  was  impressed  and  was  about  to  follow  his  advice 
when  the  magazine  accepted  my  story  on  condition 
that  I  take  twenty-five  dollars  as  remuneration  and 
rewrite  it  so  as  to  eliminate  some  of  the  expressions 
which,  in  the  editor's  opinion,  were  too  technical  for 
the  average  reader.  I  accepted,  and  forgot  the  other 
editor's  advice  in  my  increased  glorification. 

I  saw  no  more  of  that  editor  for  a  year,  when — 
again  with  empty  pockets  and  an  empty  stomach, 
but  with  nineteen  or  twenty  stories  to  my  credit  in 
good  magazines — I  met  him  accidentally.  He  again 
invited  me  into  a  cafe. 

"  I  am  going  to  drink  this  one,"  he  said  as  he 
raised  his  glass,  "  to  a  fellow  who  has  won.  I  had  no 
faith  in  you,  for  I  had  seen  too  many  make  the  same 
start  and  drop  off ;  but  you  are  a  winner.  I  know  it ! 
Never  mind  if  you  are  not  getting  the  money."  He 
had  surely  noticed  my  shabby  apparel.  "  You'll  get 
it.  You've  got  me  beaten  and  I  congratulate  you. 
I've  read  your  stuff  and  I  am  mighty  proud  that  I 
was  the  first  editor  to  approve  it.     Here's  how !  " 

Through  the  long  years  when  an  occasional  spell 
of  glorification  was  sandwiched  in  between  the  poverty 
and  hardships,  I  have  been  upheld  by  that  man's  good 
opinion  of  me  more  than  by  ambition,  pride,  or  neces- 
sity. He  is  dead  now — dropped  in  the  street ;  but  his 
influence  on  my  mind  is  still  with  me.  Had  I  not 
met  him  I  should  not  be  writing  this  story. 

However,  when  the  big  editor  said,  "  Never  mind, 
you'll  get  the  money !  "  he  was  wrong.  I  have  made 
some,  it  is  true;  but  I  have  never  been  able  to  have 


14   MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

enough  ahead  at  any  one  time  to  live  comfortably  and 
without  worry. 

My  first  story — the  one  for  which  I  received 
twenty-five  dollars — received  considerable  attention  at 
the  time  and  is  now  printed  in  one  of  my  books.  Its 
appearance  in  a  leading  magazine  made  it  easier  for 
me  to  see  the  editors  and  also  enabled  me  to  get  my 
future  stories  read  more  quickly. 

When  I  went  home  with  that  first  twenty-five  dollars 
my  wife  naturally  was  delighted.  She  saw  a  future 
pride  in  telling  people  that  her  husband  was  an 
author.  It  relieved  her  of  having  to  explain  that  I 
had  been  a  sailor  and  a  diamond-setter,  but  that  I 
was  temporarily  out  of  employment. 

The  money  did  not  go  far,  however.  We  owed  the 
butcher  and  the  grocer  more  than  that,  and  were  hard 
pressed  by  the  landlord  besides.  No  matter  how  well 
I  succeeded,  somehow  I  seem  always  to  have  been 
pressed  by  landlords.  Still,  the  money  was  a  tem- 
porary relief  and,  feeling  encouraged,  I  set  to  work 
with  a  vim  and  soon  turned  out  another  sea  yarn. 
For  this  one  I  received  forty  dollars,  and  the  editor 
urged  me  to  write  more. 

Understand  you,  I  was  not  an  educated  man  and 
knew  little  about  the  rules  of  English.  I  had  never 
heard  of  what  is  known  as  style  in  writing.  My  work 
was  always  laborious.  I  would  get  an  idea  for  a 
plot  and  would  then  proceed  to  put  it  down  in  painful 
style,  a  paragraph  at  a  time.  Unlike  most  writers, 
I  rarely  ever  rewrote  my  stories. 

My  vocabulary  was  very  limited  and  frequently  I 


GATHERING  NO  MOSS  15 

had  to  look  through  the  dictionaries  for  the  proper 
word  to  express  myself. 

I  used  to  marvel  at  my  newspaper  friend,  who 
could  sit  down  at  a  typewriter  and  reel  off  copy  by 
the  yard.  He  never  had  to  hesitate  for  a  word.  By 
instinct,  it  seemed,  he  knew  how  to  punctuate. 

"  It  must  be  great  to  be  able  to  do  that,"  I  said  to 
him  one  day.  "  Think  of  how  I  have  to  pore  over 
my  words ! " 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  "  it  does  come  easy ;  but  you 
also  want  to  remember  that  I  couldn't  write  a  short 
story  to  save  my  life.  I  guess  I'm  too  free  with  my 
language."     I  know  now  that  he  was. 

At  the  end  of  my  first  year  of  writing  I  sat  down 
with  my  wife  one  night  and  decided  to  take  stock. 
I  had  written  something  like  twenty  stories,  which 
later  proved  to  be  the  cream  of  all  my  efforts.  For 
these  I  had  received  an  average  price  of  forty-five 
dollars.  My  year's  work  had  netted  me  about  a 
thousand  dollars — about  twenty  dollars  a  week. 

To  some  that  may  appear  better  than  working  as 
a  sailor  or  even  as  a  diamond-setter.  I  know  thousands 
of  good  men  support  families  on  much  less  than  that ; 
but  of  those  thousands  few  are  authors  who  have  to 
live  in  New  York.  I  assure  you  that  living  the  life 
of  a  writer  is  much  more  expensive  than  following 
the  daily  walks  of  a  sailor  or  a  diamond-setter. 

As  my  name  began  to  appear  frequently  I  had  to 
meet  other  writers.  To  be  successful  at  anything  one 
must  be  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  thing  he  is  doing. 
To  have  a  talk  with  another  writer  or  two  usually 


16   MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

cost  me  a  dollar.  If  I  did  that  every  day — my  aver- 
age was  easily  one  dollar — it  can  be  seen  that  three 
hundred  and  sixty-five  of  my  thousand  dollars  went 
toward  social  talks  with  other  authors. 

Right  away  I  expect  someone  to  say:  "  That  only 
goes  to  show  the  curse  of  drink !  "  But  I  should  like 
someone  to  tell  me  how  an  individual  in  search  of 
companionship  can  upset  the  customs  of  his  fellow- 
men  singlehanded !  I  could  not  if  I  had  wanted  to ; 
and,  besides,  I  had  no  such  inclination.  If  a  fellow- 
writer,  meeting  me  on  the  street,  slapped  me  on  the 
shoulder  and  invited  me  into  a  cafe  I  went — not 
because  I  particularly  wanted  a  drink  but  because 
I  wanted  to  talk  and  hear  others  talk.  I  needed  com- 
panionship of  that  kind.  If  I  remained  any  length 
of  time  I  had  to  extend  a  drink  invitation — and  drinks 
cost  money. 

It  is  not  my  purpose  to  discuss  the  drink  question. 
I  think  that  was  pretty  well  explained  in  a  recent 
story  by  Jack  London.  I  am  merely  attempting  to 
explain  why  a  writer's  life  is  necessarily  more  expen- 
sive than  that  of  the  average  man  in  less  prominent 
walks  of  life.  Remember,  also,  that  I  had  been  a 
sailor  and  had  the  seaman's  love  for  sociability. 

My  wife  and  I  went  over  all  this  and  understood 
it.  My  literary  success  had  been  gratifying  to  both 
of  us ;  but  the  butcher,  the  grocer,  the  landlord,  and 
the  wolf  were  still  waiting  outside.  In  a  year  they 
had  not  budged  an  inch.  And  up  to  that  time  I  had 
not  encountered  tailors.  That  was  a  new  cloud,  which 
was  to  come.     It  came  quickly.     One  of  the  crosses 


GATHERING  NO  MOSS  17 

of  ray  career  up  to  that  time  was  a  household  duty 
requiring  me  to  take  a  big  collie  dog  out  for  a  walk 
twice  a  day.  I  never  liked  dogs,  though  I  am  fond 
of  cats ;  and  that  collie  became  one  of  the  dark  spots 
in  my  life.  Not  only  did  I  hate  to  be  seen  walking 
with  the  dog,  but  a  more  serious  worry  arose. 

On  account  of  having  to  see  editors  I  had  dis- 
covered that  my  personal  appearance  was  important. 
I  had  but  one  suit  of  clothes — a  blue  one — and  during 
the  shedding  period,  or  whatever  it  is  called,  the 
reddish  hairs  from  that  collie  would  get  on  my  blue 
suit  and  stay  there,  no  matter  how  much  I  brushed  it. 

"  Something  has  got  to  be  done  about  that  collie ! " 
I  said  to  my  wife  after  we  had  figured  up  for  the 
first  year  of  writing.  "  My  clothes  are  never  in  con- 
dition for  me  to  call  on  an  editor." 

My  wife  would  not  listen  to  anything  that  might 
cause  gloom  in  the  life  of  the  collie ;  and  as  that  dog 
was  her  main  joy  I  had  to  bear  my  burden  and  sub- 
mit to  the  continued  daily  walks. 

"  Why  don't  you  buy  a  new  suit.''  "  she  asked.  "  I 
think  we  can  save  up  enough." 

At  the  outset  I  told  you  I  had  been  an  inventor, 
and  it  was  now  up  to  me  to  exercise  inventive  powers ; 
but  under  an  electric  light  inventive  genius  often  goes 
wrong,  as  I  will  explain. 

It  suddenly  occurred  to  me  that  if  I  got  a  brown 
suit  of  clothes — the  same  shade  as  the  collie — the 
loosened  hairs  that  fell  on  me  would  be  unnoticed. 

.  On  a  credit  basis  I  put  this  idea  into  execution; 
but  imagine  my  chagrin  when  I  discovered  that  under 


18   MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

the  electric  light  of  the  cheap  clothing  store  I  had 
picked  the  wrong  shade !  The  flying  hairs  made  my 
apparel  look  more  shabby  than  ever  ! 

This  was  no  joking  master  with  me.  I  was  deadly 
serious ;  but  when  I  spoke  of  it  to  a  fellow  short- 
story  writer  I  thought  he  would  go  into  convulsions 
of  laughter.  I  became  angry  and  left  him.  The  next 
time  I  met  him  he  started  to  smile,  but  seeing  the 
frown  coming  on  my  face  he  apologized  for  having 
laughed  at  my  misfortune.  He  was  a  humorist.  I 
was  not. 

"  Can  you  explain  to  me,"  I  asked  him,  "  why  it  is 
that  most  of  our  mirth  comes  from  seeing  someone 
suffer.?  " 

"  But  that  is  funny,  you  know — that  suit  being 
bought  to  match  the  dog ! "  he  insisted. 

"  Maybe  so,"  I  agreed ;  "  but  will  you  tell  me  how 
I  am  going  to  get  another  suit.?  Is  that  funny.?  " 
He  lent  me  the  money. 

Soon  after  the  misfortune  of  the  collie  and  the 
brown  suit  I  was  invited  to  a  formal  dinner.  I  knew 
it  would  be  of  advantage  for  me  to  be  present,  but 
this  would  entail  the  expense  of  a  dress  suit  and  a 
high  hat.  It  was  impossible  for  me  to  stretch  my 
credit  that  far.  There  was  but  one  thing  left  to  do 
— ^write  a  story. 

In  that  story  I  became  unconsciously  a  humorist — 
at  least  some  of  the  critics  were  kind  enough  to  refer 
to  me  as  one.  Really,  though,  I  had  no  idea  of  caus- 
ing laughter  when  I  first  began  to  devise  the  plot. 
The  question  of  clothes  had  suggested  it  to  me. 


GATHERING  NO  MOSS  19 

I  had  been  reading  a  scientific  work  on  the  manu- 
facture and  composition  of  explosives.  Always  I 
have  made  it  a  point  to  study  those  things  thor- 
oughly, and  when  I  had  finished  the  book  I  was  pretty 
familiar  with  the  various  stages  in  the  preparation 
of  guncotton.  I  wrote  the  story,  pointing  out  scien- 
tifically how  a  sailor  on  a  battleship  accidentally  sat 
in  an  acid  mixture,  which  was  being  used  in  making 
explosives,  and  discolored  his  duck  trousers. 

By  trying  to  whiten  them  with  alcohol  and  pow- 
dered chalk  he  had  unwittingly  turned  the  spot  into 
guncotton.  He  had  a  bottle  in  his  hip  pocket,  and 
when  the  boatswain  struck  him  with  a  board  an  ex- 
plosion followed  that  blew  off  the  troublesome  part 
of  the  trousers  at  a  most  embarrassing  moment. 

That  story  caused  a  laugh,  notwithstanding  my 
serious  efforts  to  be  scientific ;  and  I  received  sixty 
dollars  for  it — received  it  in  time  to  purchase  the 
dress  suit  and  high  hat  for  the  dinner. 

At  that  gathering  I  met  more  entertaining  men 
than  I  had  ever  seen  before.  It  inspired  me — gave 
me  new  life.  I  should  have  gone  home  thoroughly 
happy  but  for  an  unfortunate  incident  that  some- 
what marred  my  night. 

Did  you  ever  see  a  sailor  in  a  dress  suit  and  a  high 
hat.''  I  realize  that  I  must  have  looked  funny.  I  am 
short  of  stature  and  still  have  every  earmark  of  the 
man  before  the  mast.  At  any  rate,  one  of  the  other 
guests  became  unduly  and  uncontrollably  amused  by 
my  appearance.  As  we  walked  through  the  lobby 
of  the  hotel  he  asked  to  be  introduced  to  me. 


20   MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

When  I  turned  to  speak  to  him  he  slapped  me  on 
top  of  the  high  hat  and  shoved  it  down  over  my  ears. 
Though  I  knew  it  was  a  case  of  too  much  wine,  this 
was  too  much  for  a  man  with  the  instinct  of  a  second 
mate.  I  landed  a  blow  on  his  jaw  that  knocked  him 
half  across  the  room.  Friends  interceded  and  he 
finally  apologized — still  maintaining,  however,  that 
I  looked  funny.  In  later  years  he  and  I  became  close 
friends. 

As  a  literary  man  I  was  progressing  nicely  at  this 
time,  but  I  still  had  trouble  keeping  in  ready  money. 
At  that  dinner  several  men  of  note  told  me  that  I  was 
a  coming  man.  They  had  read  my  stories  and  had 
liked  them.  In  a  way  I  guess  that  was  true.  If 
some  of  them  had  not  noticed  my  work  I  should  not 
have  been  invited  to  the  dinner. 

When  I  reached  home  after  the  banquet  I  was  flat 
broke.  The  dress  suit  and  the  few  incidentals  had 
absolutely  cleaned  me  out  of  funds.  When  I  say 
cleaned  out  I  mean  exactly  that.  I  did  not  have  a 
nickel.  The  next  day  I  had  to  walk  downtown  from 
One  Hundred  and  Fifty-first  Street  to  Twenty-third 
Street.  Moreover,  I  was  too  proud  or  thin-skinned 
to  borrow — and  I  walked  back ! 

Soon  after  that  my  wife,  who  is  a  frail  little  woman, 
fell  ill.  I  knew  how  to  cook — thanks  to  my  training 
as  a  sailor — and  we  had  enough  groceries  on  hand 
for  several  meals ;  but  the  clothes  had  to  be  washed. 
It  was  impossible  for  my  wife  to  do  this  and  there  was 
not  enough  money  on  hand  to  have  it  done;  so  I 


GATHEmXG  NO  MOSS  21 

shoved  aside  the  few  pages  of  an  unfinished  story  and 
undertook  the  job. 

I  was  not  thoroughly  famihar  with  the  workings 
of  a  washboard  and  at  the  end  of  an  hour  my  knuckles 
were  bleeding  from  having  rubbed  against  the  zinc 
corrugations — but  I  had  half  of  the  clothes  washed. 
After  hanging  them  out  to  dry  I  again  started  on  my 
long  walk  downtown.  I  was  desperate  and  deter- 
mined to  get  some  money  even  if  I  had  to  get  down 
on  my  knees  and  beg  it.  Being  already  tired  from 
doing  the  washing,  this  was  the  most  fatiguing  jaunt 
of  all.  From  One  Hundred  and  Fifty-first  Street  to 
Twenty-third  Street  is  about  six  miles. 

When  I  finally  arrived  at  the  office  of  the  magazine 
that  had  bought  my  first  story  the  bruises  on  my 
knuckles  had  become  quite  painful,  and  I  was  foot- 
sore besides.    The  editor  noticed  my  condition. 

"  Sit  down !  "  he  said.  "  You  look  tired  and  I  can 
see  you  have  had  some  kind  of  an  accident."  He  was 
looking  at  my  knuckles. 

"  It's  no  accident,"  I  replied ;  "  it's  hard  luck.  I 
hurt  my  knuckles  washing  clothes  and  have  walked 
here  to  see  whether  I  could  sell  you  a  story  and  get 
some  money  in  advance." 

He  could  not  believe  me  at  first,  and  I  was  com- 
pelled to  go  into  the  details  of  my  hardships.  He 
was  a  college  man  who  had  never  missed  a  meal  in 
his  life  and  was  amazed  to  know  that  such  conditions 
existed  among  writers. 

"Would  ten  dollars  a  week  help  you?"  he  asked 
kindly. 


22       MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

"  Would  it  help?  It  would  be  a  Godsend!  "  I  re- 
plied. 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  he  said — "  I  will 
put  you  on  the  payroll  for  ten  dollars  a  week,  pro- 
vided you  will  give  us  the  refusal  of  your  stories  " — 
that  is  to  say,  I  should  have  to  allow  his  magazine 
to  have  the  first  chance  at  them. 

I  agreed  to  this  readily;  and,  for  a  year,  I  took 
them  all  to  him  faithfully.  The  ten  dollars  was  a 
port  in  a  storm.  I  could  always  count  on  that,  no 
matter  what  happened ;  but,  strangely  enough,  after 
that  not  half  the  stories  I  submitted  to  that  editor 
were  accepted.  Many  of  them  I  took  elsewhere  and 
sold  at  a  better  price. 

The  best  pay  I  had  received  for  a  story  up  to  that 
time  was  one  cent  a  word,  and  in  those  days  payment 
was  not  made  until  publication.  Nowadays  all  first- 
class  magazines  pay  on  acceptance.  When  I  had  a 
story  accepted  I  borrowed  money  on  the  prospects — 
and  when  the  check  did  finally  come  I  really  had 
nothing.  My  predicament  was  very  similar  to  that 
of  the  poor  clerk  who  gets  into  the  clutches  of  a 
loan  shark  and  can  never  escape. 

Summer  came  on  and  I  had  to  have  another  suit  of 
clothes.  Out  of  the  proceeds  of  one  story  I  managed 
to  save  enough  to  get  a  seersucker  coat  and  trousers ; 
but  the  material  was  bad  and  before  I  had  tramped 
round  from  one  office  to  another  for  two  months  there 
were  fringes  on  the  bottoms  of  my  trousers  that 
looked  like   sets   of  false  whiskers.     My   coat  had 


GATHERING  NO  MOSS  23 

wrinkled  and  drawn  so  in  the  back  that  it  threatened 
to  climb  over  my  shoulders  any  minute. 

A  neighboring  woman  who  had  become  a  friend  of 
my  wife  very  kindly  came  to  the  rescue  with  a  bundle 
of  shirts  and  other  apparel  that  had  been  left  by  a 
roving  son  named  Thomas,  who  had  gone  West  and 
had  not  been  heard  of  for  several  years.  I  took 
Thomas's  shirts  and  wore  them.  They  were  the  old- 
fashioned  kind — long-bosomed  stiff  ones  that  fastened 
with  studs. 

Thomas  evidently  was  long,  while  I  was  short ;  and 
as  the  holes  for  the  studs  had  worn  too  large,  my 
studs,  which  happened  to  be  small  ones,  would  oc- 
casionally slip  through.  When  I  sat  down  the  bosom 
would  flare  open.  I  was  always  apprehensive  about 
this,  and  every  time  I  took  a  seat  in  an  editor's  office 
I  would  grab  myself  across  the  stomach  and  bend  the 
long  bosom  inward  so  as  to  prevent  the  shirt  from 
popping  open  at  the  top.  That  kept  me  so  busy  I 
often  lost  the  thread  of  the  conversation. 

It  was  in  this  rigging  that  I  dropped  in  one  day 
to  see  an  editor  who,  I  had  been  told,  was  crazy  for 
sea  stories.  He  wanted  a  story  all  right,  but  ex- 
plained to  me  that  the  magazine  was  hard  pressed 
for  cash. 

"  Though  we  haven't  much  money,"  he  said,  "  we 
can  give  you  its  equivalent  in  some  articles  that  we 
advertise." 

"What  have  you?"  I  asked  with  a  show  of  in- 
terest.    Understand  you,  I  had  walked  down  there 


24       MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  IMAN 

from  home  and  my  feet  were  very  sore.  I  was  will- 
ing to  take  anything. 

The  editor  took  from  his  desk  drawer  a  printed 
sheet  of  advertised  articles,  and  the  first  thing  my 
eye  fell  on  was  the  cut  of  a  chainless  bicycle.  Here 
was  a  way  to  save  walking! 

"  If  I  can  have  my  choice,"  I  said,  "  I'll  take  that " 
— pointing  to  the  bicycle  ad. 

"  It's  a  go ! "  he  declared ;  and  I  drew  from  my 
pocket  the  manuscript  of  what  has  since  been  regarded 
as  my  best  story. 

I  realized  that  I  was  letting  it  go  cheap,  but  that 
chainless  bicycle  saved  me  many  a  long  walk.  I 
was  also  in  style,  for  at  that  time  the  bicycle  craze 
had  the  country  in  a  firm  grip.  Broadway  was  alive 
with  wheels ;  and  mine  was  of  fine  make. 

With  a  bicycle  to  ride  and  a  story  off  my  hands 
I  went  home  very  much  encouraged.  The  weekly 
ten  dollars  served  to  hold  off  the  grocer  and  the 
butcher,  and  I  began  to  turn  out  another  sea  yarn. 
I  sold  it  for  just  enough  to  pay  up  my  more  press- 
ing domestic  debts. 

Ideas  were  getting  scare  now  and  I  found  I  could 
not  possibly  write  more  than  two  stories  a  month. 
I  also  got  to  where  I  could  not  begin  the  writing  of 
a  new  story  until  I  had  sold  the  last  one.  The 
anxiety  and  uncertainty  while  waiting  an  answer 
from  the  editor  kept  my  mind  off  new  plots.  To 
make  matters  worse,  right  in  the  midst  of  one  of 
those  lapses  I  broke  the  bicycle  and  had  not  enough 
money  to  have  it  repaired. 


GATHERING  NO  MOSS  25 

Thus  ended  my  second  year  in  literary  life.  The 
butcher,  tlie  grocer,  the  landlord,  and  the  wolf  were 
still  on  the  job. 

In  relating  these  trials  of  an  author  I  am  sticking 
closely  to  the  truth,  but  I  am  not  trying  to  convey 
the  impression  that  conditions  such  as  I  faced  exist 
to-day  or  that  all  writers  had  to  face  them  then. 
Neither  am  I  trying  to  discourage  others  from  tack- 
ling the  game. 

This  was  fifteen  years  ago,  and  at  that  time  the 
magazines  were  not  run  as  they  are  now.  Better 
prices  are  paid  for  fiction  to-day,  and  the  whole 
literary  game  is  played  in  a  much  more  business- 
like manner.     Even  the  writers  are  more  businesslike. 

If  I  had  started  out  under  conditions  prevailing 
in  1914,  the  chances  are  my  writings  would  have 
enabled  me  to  live  comfortably.  You  see,  I  began  to 
reach  the  end  of  my  string  just  as  the  value  of  stories 
began  to  increase. 

Again,  I  do  not  attribute  my  lack  of  financial 
success  altogether  to  conditions.  Other  men  pros- 
pered while  I  failed,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that 
they  did  not  gain  so  much  recognition.  One  author 
I  recall  had  a  way  of  manipulating  the  market  so 
as  to  get  a  good  price  for  a  very  ordinary  story,  and 
when  he  put  over  a  good  one  he  would  do  so  with  such 
effect  that  it  was  good  for  three  or  four  more — 
at  the  same  price.  He  would  also  go  to  see  an  editor 
with  money  in  his  pocket  and  feel  independent.  Some 
writers  are  good  business  men  and  born  salesmen, 
while  others — like  myself — are  simply  writers.    With 


26   MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

a  good  business  manager  I  might  have  been  a  success- 
ful man. 

Less  than  a  month  ago  a  man  well  known  in  the 
field  of  letters  told  me  that  when  I  died  he  was  sure 
someone  would  publish  all  my  works  in  a  uniform 
edition,  and  that  they  would  have  a  big  sale.  That 
may  or  may  not  be  true,  but  it  is  certain  no  one  will 
put  them  on  the  market  now. 

Getting  back  to  my  narrative,  however,  the  editor 
from  whom  I  got  the  chainless  bicycle  sent  for  me 
one  day  and  suggested  that  I  collect  my  first  batch 
of  stories  and  have  them  printed  in  book  form.  This 
had  not  occurred  to  me  before ;  so  I  set  out  with  a 
new  ambition.  I  selected  the  best  of  those  I  had 
done,  got  the  several  magazines  to  waive  their  book 
rights,  and  took  them  to  a  big  publishing  firm.  They 
were  promptly  accepted,  and  in  addition  I  got  an 
order  from  that  house,  which  also  published  a  maga- 
zine, for  a  story.  Things  suddenly  looked  so  bright 
for  me  that  I  put  my  whole  heart  in  that  ordered 
story  and  it  brought  me  a  hundred  dollars  in  cash. 

Though  the  book  did  not  have  a  big  sale  it  attracted 
attention,  and  I  began  to  get  letters  from  editors 
I  had  not  known  before.  The  book  reviewers  spoke 
so  well  of  my  first  effort  that  I  became  unusuall}' 
glorified ;  in  fact  I  became  vainglorious — ^had  a  swelled 
head! 

I  could  not  work  for  thinking  about  what  I  had 
done,  and  I  bought  drinks  for  those  who  would  listen 
while  I  told  it.  Consequently  my  funds  soon  dis- 
appeared ;  but  I  had  paid  off  my  debts  and  had  more 


GATHERING  NO  MOSS  27 

than  a  hundred  dollars  in  a  savings  bank.  I  began 
to  think  of  raising  the  price  of  my  work,  and  in  a 
way  succeeded.  The  trouble  was  I  could  not  or  did 
not  turn  out  the  stuff.  I  was  busier  thinking  about 
mj'self  than  about  plots  for  new  stories. 

I  finall}'  settled  down  and  wrote  a  story  about 
battleships — a  satire  on  the  brains  that  are  supposed 
to  run  them.  It  was  about  the  time  of  the  Spanish- 
American  War,  and  the  papers  were  filled  with  deeds 
of  valor  by  the  naval  officers.  I  made  the  mistake 
of  making  a  drunken  sailor  the  hero  of  a  great  naval 
engagement — or,  rather,  I  made  the  mistake  of  pick- 
ing out  the  wrong  nations. 

My  story  was  nothing  more  or  less  than  a  satire 
on  the  naval  officers  of  my  own  country.  I  offered 
the  story  to  several  magazines,  but  they  would  not 
take  it  for  fear  of  offending  the  public,  just  then  in 
the  throes  of  hero  worship.  Eventually  I  changed 
the  story  so  as  to  make  it  a  naval  battle  between 
ships  of  Russia  and  Great  Britain. 

That  was  unquestionably  my  best  piece  of  de- 
scriptive work,  and  I  sent  it  to  a  weekly  publication 
which  is  now  the  most  widely  circulated  periodical  in 
the  United  States — it  was  not  then.  In  less  than  a 
week  I  received  a  check  for  sixty  dollars  for  the 
story.  Feeling  that  I  was  entitled  to  more  in  view 
of  the  fact  that  I  had  published  a  book  and  that 
my  name  was  worth  something,  I  made  the  first  and 
only  stand  of  my  career  for  better  pay.  After  a 
long  mental  fight  with  m3'self  I  decided  not  to  accept 
the  check  and  returned  it. 


28       MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

"  I  think  I  am  entitled  to  more  than  that,"  I  wrote ; 
"  and  unless  you  are  willing  to  pay  me  one  hundred 
and  twenty  dollars,  please  return  my  manuscript." 
To  write  that  letter  cost  me  considerable  effort  and 
I  awaited  the  reply  with  much  anxiety. 

Meantime,  though  I  knew  nothing  about  it  in 
advance,  a  change  of  editors  had  been  made,  and  the 
answer  I  received  was  from  the  new  man.  He  not 
only  agreed  to  my  terms  but  wrote  a  cheering  letter, 
telling  me  that  the  story  was  so  good  he  wouid  like 
to  have  many  more  at  the  same  price.  That  gave  me 
new  life. 

I  was  now  on  the  floodtide  of  my  literary  career. 
For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  had  a  year  of  com- 
parative domestic  comfort.  It  cannot  be  said  that  I 
was  altogether  happy,  however.  Before  I  had  written 
ten  stories  under  the  new  scale  of  prices  it  began  to 
dawn  on  me  that  after  every  floodtide  there  comes 
an  ebb, 

I  felt  myself  slipping.  Ideas  were  growing  scarcer 
and  scarcer.  In  my  fight  against  the  hardships  oc- 
casioned by  low  prices  and  lack  of  independence  I 
had  drawn  too  heavily  on  my  store  of  creative  ideas. 
It  is  said  that  every  man  has  in  him  just  so  many 
stories,  and  I  felt  that  I  was  nearing  the  end  of 
my  string. 

As  I  have  intimated  before,  I  am  not  and  never 
was  a  natural  writer.  It  all  came  hard  to  me.  With 
this  chance  of  making  more  money,  though,  I  put  my 
nose  to  the  grindstone  and  struggled  on.     I  became 


GATHERING  NO  MOSS  29 

nervous  and  irritable.  Fears  came  to  me  that  I  was 
losing  my  mind. 

I  have  been  a  close  student  of  psychology  and 
mental  phenomena.  I  know  now  that  I  was  medically 
insane,  though  not  legally  so.  Feeling  this  way  I 
went  to  a  noted  professor  of  psychology.  He  had 
done  some  wonderful  things  by  hypnotic  suggestion. 
I  believe  in  that. 

The  professor  had  heard  of  me  and  knew  my  work. 
He  diagnosed  my  case  as  one  of  brain  fag.  There 
was  nothing  the  matter  with  me,  he  said,  except  that 
I  had  overtaxed  my  brain  in  trying  to  invent  too 
many  stories.  After  talking  a  long  time  he  advised 
me  to  keep  him  in  mind  and  said  he  would  do  the 
same  with  me.  At  the  same  time  he  discussed  with 
me  some  of  the  great  inventions  of  the  century.  He 
did  that  with  the  purpose  of  influencing  my  mind  in 
a  new  direction.  He  was  trying  to  get  my  brain 
out  of  a  rut. 

I  kept  in  mind  what  the  professor  had  said  and 
became  much  more  content.  He  was  influencing  me 
by  hypnotic  suggestion.  Some  of  my  younger  friends 
smile  when  I  tell  them  this ;  but  I  know  the  mind 
of  that  professor,  even  though  he  was  a  great  distance 
away  at  times,  turned  me  into  a  new  channel  of 
endeavor — one  that  kept  me  from  going  insane. 

The  suggestion  manifested  itself  in  an  unexpected 
way — it  always  does.  I  had  to  write  another  story 
to  get  a  needed  hundred  and  fifty  dollars,  and  I  went 
down  the  coast  many  miles  to  consult  a  naval  officer,  a 


30   MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

friend,  about  a  new  feature  that  had  been  added  to  a 
battleship.  While  there  I  was  taken  on  board  a 
submarine  boat  which  happened  to  be  at  anchor  in 
that  particular  bay.  It  was  then  I  got  the  idea  of 
my  first  invention — ^the  periscope. 

Now,  I  believe  that  nothing  but  hypnotic  sugges- 
tion could  have  made  me  go  down  there  to  see  an 
officer  and  then  find  the  very  thing  needed  to  turn 
my  thoughts  into  a  new  channel  of  invention.  If  I 
had  gone  at  any  other  time  the  submarine  boat  would 
not  have  been  there.  Those  things  are  not  coinci- 
dences. Though  no  one  has  definitely  located  it, 
I  firmly  believe  there  is  a  law  behind  them.  You 
cannot  make  me  believe  that  when  one  man  is  think- 
ing of  another,  and  just  at  that  moment  sees  him 
coming  round  a  corner,  it  is  a  coincidence.  It  occurs 
too  often. 

When  I  left  that  boat  I  was  actually  enthusiastic. 
Something  new  was  dawning  on  me.  I  even  forgot 
about  the  condition  of  the  larder  at  home.  While 
in  the  lower  part  of  the  little  boat  the  lieutenant  in 
command  showed  me  all  its  workings.  It  was  a 
great  day  for  me. 

"  The  one  thing  we  need,"  he  said  as  we  came  up, 
"  is  an  apparatus  by  which  we  can  see  what  is  going 
on  above  without  having  to  rise  to  the  surface." 

"  In  other  words,"  I  added,  "  if  you  could  look  into 
a  glass  down  below  and,  by  a  series  of  reflections,  be 
able  to  view  the  surrounding  surface  of  the  water 
above,  it  would  make  the  submarine  boat  the  most 
powerful  of  warships." 


GATHERING  NO  MOSS  31 

«  Exactly." 

"  Then  I  am  going  to  invent  it ! "  I  declared ;  and 
I  left  him,  knowing  absolutely  that  it  could  be  done. 
The  mind  of  that  professor  of  psychology  was  direct- 
ing me. 

At  that  very  moment,  though  I  did  not  know  it, 
a  Frenchman,  seated  at  his  desk  in  Paris,  was  inno- 
cently devising  a  fantastic  yarn  that  was  destined 
to  deal  me  a  crushing  blow — a  blow  from  which  I  have 
never  recovered;  one  that  has  made  me  an  old  man, 
lacking  energy  and  ambition. 

The  officer  who  explained  to  me  the  need  of  such 
an  instrument  as  the  periscope  knew  it  would  have 
to  be  composed  of  a  series  of  lenses  in  a  tube,  the 
end  of  which  must  remain  above  water  after  the  boat 
was  submerged;  but  he  could  not  discover  the  shape 
of  the  crystal  or  prism  that,  by  refraction  and  reflec- 
tion, would  carry  the  image  down  the  tube,  so  that 
it  could  be  seen  by  looking  through  the  glass  at  the 
lower  end.  That,  in  a  rough  way,  explains  the 
problem  which  was  before  me.  An  accurate  scientific 
description  would  be  impossible  without  a  diagram. 

In  the  course  of  my  experiments  it  became  neces- 
sary for  me  to  make  a  thorough  study  of  physics — 
which  I  had  never  done  at  school — and  particularly 
of  optics.  It  took  me  four  months  to  master  that 
alone. 

Meantime  I  had  to  be  a  breadwinner  and  I  was 
sorely  beset  to  make  enough  money  to  keep  my  wife 
and  myself  from  absolute  want.  I  saw  that,  to 
succeed,  I  should  have  to  be  systematic. 


32   MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

I  formulated  a  plan  by  which  I  could  work  one 
week  on  a  story  and  give  the  next  to  the  invention. 
In  that  way  I  figured  I  could  live  and,  at  the  same 
time,  gradually  reach  the  goal  for  which  I  was 
striving. 

My  mind  was  in  such  a  condition,  however,  that 
I  could  not  work  on  the  periscope  while  waiting  for 
a  story  to  be  accepted.  Editors  were  glad  to  get 
my  manuscripts,  but  that  continual  waiting  for  ac- 
ceptances was  killing  my  chances  of  making  a  success- 
ful invention.  Finally  I  saw  the  way  out — at  least 
it  was  worth  a  trial. 

Bright  and  early  one  morning  I  called  on  the  editor 
of  a  popular  magazine,  which  had  published  several 
of  my  stories,  and  asked  him  whether  he  could  use 
one  every  two  weeks.    The  idea  was  agreeable  to  him. 

"  But  where  is  the  stuff.?  "  he  inquired. 

"  I  haven't  a  story  ready,"  I  replied,  "  but  I  have 
one  in  mind.    What  do  you  think  of  this  idea?  " 

I  then  related  in  detail  the  plot  of  a  story — I  had 
not  thought  of  it  until  that  very  moment — and  he 
said  it  sounded  like  good  stuff. 

"  That's  all  right,"  he  said.  "  I'll  take  that.  Go 
ahead  and  finish  it." 

That,  in  the  writing  game,  is  known  as  offering  a 
story  in  scenario  form — in  other  words  an  outline. 
At  my  suggestion  the  editor  gave  me  fifty  dollars  in 
advance,  and,  with  the  story  already  sold,  I  quickly 
turned  it  out. 

Just  why  this  idea  had  never  occurred  to  me  before 


GATHERING  NO  MOSS  33 

I  do  not  know.  It  would  have  saved  me  many  nights 
of  worry. 

For  a  whole  year  I  did  nothing  but  sell  scenarios 
to  that  editor  and  work  on  my  invention.  And — 
what  is  more  remarkable — I  managed  to  make  ends 
meet. 

It  was  at  the  expiration  of  a  year  of  experimenting 
I  suddenly  discovered  that,  in  addition  to  other  lenses, 
a  cone-shaped  glass  placed  in  the  end  of  the  tube 
would  do  the  trick  of  refracting  the  light  rays  as  I 
wanted  them.  I  was  beside  myself  with  joy.  Work- 
ing night  and  day  I  quickly  rigged  out  a  model,  and 
— imagine  my  delight ! — it  worked !  I  had  solved  the 
problem  !     I  had  invented  the  periscope ! 

At  nine  o'clock  the  next  morning  I  called  up  the 
submarine-boat  builders  and  asked  for  the  lieutenant 
who  had  talked  to  me  a  year  before.  It  so  hap- 
pened he  was  passing  through  New  York  that  day 
and  was  in  the  office  for  just  an  hour*  I  had  chosen 
the  psychological  moment  for  calling  on  the  telephone. 

"  I've  got  it !  I've  got  it ! "  I  shouted  over  the 
'phone. 

"  Got  what?  "  he  asked  in  an  irritated  voice. 

"  The  periscope !  "  I  explained.  "  I've  solved  the 
problem." 

He  told  me  to  hurry  to  the  office  as  quickly  as  I 
could,  as  he  had  but  a  short  time  to  stay.  I  got  there 
in  exactly  forty  minutes.  Unfortunately  on  my  way 
down  I  broke  my  model  and  it  would  not  work.  He 
explained  to  me,  though,  that  a  diagram  would  do 


34   MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

just  as  well,  as  he  understood  perfectly  what  I  was 
after. 

"  Get  your  diagrams  ready  and  have  them  here 
when  I  return  from  Boston — in  three  days,"  he  said ; 
"  and  be  sure  you  have  them  accurate." 

I  spent  three  days  working  on  those  diagrams  and 
they  were  complete  when  he  arrived.  I  sat  across 
the  desk  from  the  lieutenant  as  he  unrolled  my  blue- 
prints, and  I  shall  never  forget  the  expression  in  his 
eyes  when  he  looked  at  the  first  one. 

"  You've  got  it !  "  he  declared  exultantly.  "  The 
cone-shaped  tip  solves  the  problem.  I  congratulate 
you." 

I  told  him  I  had  applied  for  a  patent. 

"  That's  all  right,"  he  said ;  "  that  will  protect  you 
until  a  lawyer  can  put  it  through  for  you.  We  will 
help  you  all  we  can.  If  you  haven't  enough  money 
we  will  defray  all  expenses ;  but,  you  understand,"  he 
said,  "  you  will  have  to  make  improvements  on  this 
idea,  and  it  will  take  much  of  your  time.  How  about 
it.?" 

I  explained  to  him  my  financial  condition  and  told 
him  of  my  literary  work  which  was  necessary  to  keep 
me  going  while  waiting  for  the  patent  to  be  issued. 

The  lieutenant  suggested  to  me  that  if  I  could  live 
on  fifty  dollars  a  week  his  company  would  put  me  on 
the  payroll  for  that  amount  indefinitely,  so  that  I 
might  continue  my  experiments. 

The  two  years  that  followed  were  the  happiest  of 
my  life.  The  fifty  dollars  a  week  enabled  us  to  live 
in  comparative  comfort  and  I  could  devote  my  entire 


GATHERING  NO  MOSS  35 

time  to  the  thing  I  loved — invention.  I  am  naturally 
of  a  mechanical  turn  of  mind  and  am  at  peace  with 
the  world  when  I  can  sit  down  and  make  things.  My 
friends  to-day  often  come  to  my  room  and  marvel  at 
a  contrivance  in  the  shape  of  a  sliding  board  on  which 
I  can  place  my  typewriting  machine  and  write  in  bed. 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  these  happy  moments  that 
the  blow  fell.  And  this  brings  me  back  to  the  French- 
man and  his  yarn. 

The  lawyers  notified  me  that  the  United  States 
Government  had  refused  to  grant  me  a  patent  on  the 
periscope  because  a  story  had  been  published,  prior 
to  my  application,  in  a  French  magazine,  which  had 
described  fantastically  the  possibilities  of  an  instru- 
ment very  similar  to  the  one  I  had  invented. 

On  account  of  some  international  law  or  agreement 
in  regard  to  patents,  which  they  explained  in  technical 
terms  I  did  not  understand,  my  hopes  were  blasted. 
Understand  you,  this  Frenchman  did  not  attempt  an 
invention.  He  merely  wrote  that  such  a  thing  was 
possible. 

My  beloved  periscope  was  now  public  property,  and 
anybody  had  the  right  to  proceed  with  its  develop- 
ment. Though  the  submarine-boat  people  had  treated 
me  generously,  my  devices  were  no  longer  needed. 
I  was  out  of  a  job! 

Really,  I  believe  it  was  the  saddest  moment  of  my 
life  when  I  went  back  to  the  typewriter  and  began 
to  lay  out  a  story.  Ahead  of  me  I  saw  the  old  grind, 
the  weary  rounds  of  the  magazine  offices,  the  butcher, 
the  grocer,  the  landlord,  and  the  wolf ! 


36   MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

I  am  not  a  quitter,  though.  With  as  much  strength 
and  spirit  as  I  could  muster  I  ground  out  that  story 
and  started  downtown  with  the  manuscript  in  my 
pocket.  Four  editors  turned  it  down;  and  then  I 
had  to  sell  it  to  a  cheap  publication  that  paid  me 
less  than  one  cent  a  word.     My  punch  was  gone ! 

Though  I  have  written  along  in  a  desultory  way 
for  several  years  that  punch  has  never  returned. 
The  first-class  periodicals  turn  my  stories  down  and 
I  finally  have  to  sell  them  to  the  cheaper — yes, 
cheapest — ones.  Instead  of  being  recognized  as  a 
writer  of  originality  I  am  looked  on  as  a  hack. 

Less  than  a  month  ago  I  went  to  the  office  of  a 
first-class  magazine  to  get  an  answer  on  a  sea  story 
I  had  submitted  a  week  before.  After  waiting  nearly 
an  hour  in  the  reception-room  the  editor  sent  for  me. 
He  was  a  young  man — a  stranger  to  me.  Over  his 
desk  hung  a  large  portrait  of  myself,  done  by  a  well- 
known  artist,  a  personal  friend  of  mine. 

The  young  editor  did  not  know  me  from  Adam's 
house  cat ;  in  fact  he  had  never  heard  of  me,  though 
my  portrait  hung  over  his  desk.  I  must  admit, 
though,  I  do  not  look  like  that  portrait  now. 

"  I'm  sorry  we  can't  use  that  story  of  yours,"  he 
said;  and  wearily  I  reached  for  the  manuscript. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  went  on,  "  if  you  intend  to 
continue  writing  sea  stories,  why  don't  you  read  a 
book  I  have  here?  It  will  give  you  an  idea  of  how 
to  write  one.'* 

He  handed  me  a  beautifully  bound  volume  of  sea 
stories — my  own  book,  a  collection  of  my  best  stories ! 


GATHERING  NO  MOSS  37 

I  did  not  have  the  heart  to  tell  that  young  man 
I  was  the  author  of  the  book,  and  he  was  not  observ- 
ant enough  to  see  that  the  name  on  my  story  and 
that  on  the  book  were  the  same.  He  would  not  have 
believed  me  if  I  had  told  him.  I  took  the  manuscript 
and  went  to  the  next  editor. 

I  went  away  from  there  thinking  of  my  past 
triumphs — literary  triumphs.  I  wanted  that  young 
editor  to  keep  that  book  and  read  it.  It  might  do 
him  some  good.  Then  I  thought — Had  it  done  me 
any  good? 

My  portrait  hangs  in  the  office  of  many  editors, 
it  is  true.  My  books  are  in  the  libraries.  Some 
relatives  of  the  future  generations — I  have  no  children 
— may  be  kind  enough  to  point  to  my  works  with  a 
slight  feeling  of  pride.    That  is  all  I  can  hope  for. 

Of  this  world's  goods  I  have  none.  I  never  have 
had  any  and  I  never  shall  have  any.  I  have  led  an 
improvident  life.  The  other  night,  supperless,  I  went 
to  my  stuffy  little  hall  bedroom,  weary  of  the  world. 
I  looked  in  the  mirror  and  saw  I  was  an  old  man. 

I  lighted  my  pipe  and  stretched  myself  on  the  bed. 

"Why  is  this?"  I  said  to  myself.  "Why  is  it 
that,  with  all  your  toil,  you  have  accumulated  noth- 
ing but  passing  fame?  " 

I  thought  and  I  thought — and  finally  an  answer 
came.  At  first  it  was  jumbled,  but  gradually  it 
came  out  in  a  sentence  of  four  clear-cut  words.  I 
guess  that  is  the  answer: 

I  am  a  sailor! 


SIDELIGHTS  ON  MORGAN 
ROBERTSON 

By  SETH  MOYLE 

The  author  of  the  folloicing  memoir  of  Morgan 
Robertson  is  a  prominent  literary  agent  in  New  YorJc. 
The  anecdotes  he  relates  bring  out  vividly  the  per- 
sonality of  Morgan  Robertson.  Mr.  Moyle  knew  0. 
Henry  and  Morgan  Robertson  in  the  early,  lean  years 
of  their  literary  struggles.  The  world  and  time  he 
"writes  about  are  gone.  Both  ended  when  the  brilliant 
lights  that  made  their  Bohemia  were  extinguished. 

MORGAN  ROBERTSON'S  personality  reflected 
the  vigor  and  directness  of  his  writings.  It 
was  a  mighty  force.  He  was  a  man's  man  through 
and  through — a  power  that,  once  met,  never  would 
be  forgotten.  The  artificial,  superficial,  and  hypo- 
critical, all  were  foreign  to  his  nature.  He  was  too 
honest  in  his  straight-from-the-shoulder  emphasisms 
for  his  own  good,  perhaps.  Evasion  and  even 
diplomacy  were  strangers  to  his  makeup.  His  lack 
of  tact  and  habit  of  blurting  out  his  feelings,  in 
stentorian  tones,  lost  him  the  support  of  some  powers 
in  the  magazine  world.  Accustomed  to  being  catered 
to,  they  might  have  been  "jollied"  into  a  more  re- 
ceptive mental  perspective.  But  Morgan  Robertson 
would  not  indulge  this.  He  never  played  the  game 
of  bluff,  and  selected  the  harder  road  of  right  rather 
than  the  easier  line  of  least  resistance. 

38 


SIDELIGHTS  OX  MORGAN  ROBERTSON     39 

His  was  the  highest  sense  of  honor,  even  with  the 
most  trivial  of  things. 

"  Give  me  fifty  cents,"  or  "  Give  me  fifty  dollars," 
would  follow  a  sudden  cyclonic  entrance  into  my 
offices ;  and  often  it  would  be  only  a  quarter  or  even 
a  dime  asked  for. 

"  I'll  have  a  check  from  Street  &  Smith,  or  from 
Good-Heart  Taylor  on  Friday.  You'll  get  yours 
then." 

And  punctiliously,  always,  he  would  present  him- 
self with  the  amount.  Many  times,  I  have  learned 
later,  in  order  to  keep  his  word  with  me  and  with 
others,  he  would  leave  himself  strapped,  and,  in  the 
absence  of  carfare,  hoof  it  for  several  miles  from  the 
downtown  district  to  his  apartment,  far  uptown. 

Few  understood  him,  but  his  friends  were  legion ; 
and  beneath  his  brusque  surface  there  was  a  heart 
warmly  reciprocating  this  afi'ection. 

So  much  has  been  written,  since  his  death,  of  his 
career  as  an  able  seaman,  his  spectacular  entry,  after 
a  very  brief  apprenticeship,  into  that  most  difficult 
trade,  diamond-cutting,  and  his  equally  spectacular 
jump,  as  an  uneducated  man,  into  the  fiction-writing 
world,  that  I  will  pass  it  by. 

Like  0.  Henry  and  Edwin  Bliss  (the  latter  with 
probably  the  largest  reading  public  in  the  United 
States  at  the  time  of  his  decease,  and  yet  absolutely 
unknown,  personally,  because  of  his  choice  of  four- 
teen nom  de  plumes),  for  a  great  number  of  years  he 
sold  his  best  work  at  one  cent  and  one  and  one-half 
cents  per  word.    The  same  material,  now,  would  bring 


40      MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

from  $500  to  $1,000  per  story,  which  rates  ten  cents 
to  twenty  cents  per  word ;  and  the  books,  sold  out- 
right for  $150  to  $250,  would  bring,  under  the  roy- 
alty arrangement,  a  small  fortune,  as  with  the  0. 
Henry  collected  edition,  now  selling  into  the  hundreds 
of  thousands. 

A  volume  of  anecdotes  would  not  exhaust  the  stock 
that  could  be  supplied  by  the  friends  of  Morgan 
Robertson.  It  was  his  joy  to  get  together  with  his 
fellow-craftsmen  and  "  swap "  yarns.  Morgan's 
supply  in  this  respect  was  very  limited,  and  there 
were  a  few  old  war-horses  that  he  always  trotted  out 
whenever  a  newcomer  joined  the  elect,  despite  the 
fact  that  the  majority  of  the  boys  had  heard  them 
again  and  again  for  a  period  of  many  years.  But 
his  method  of  telling  them  made  them  always  interest- 
ing. Unfortunately,  most  were  of  the  "  stag-story  " 
nature,  better  presented  at  "  Johnny  Baber's  "  or 
"  Perry's  " ;  but  here  is  his  pet,  and  it  stands  the 
light  of  printed  expression.  It  reflected,  incidentally, 
his  hobby,  telepathy,  mental  suggestion,  hypnotism, 
etc. 

A  day-laborer  had  suffered  much  abuse  at  the 
hands  of  a  husky  foreman  who  would  browbeat  this 
fellow-worker,  who  was  weaker  mentally  and  physic- 
ally, with  strong  language,  and  vary  this  occasionally 
with  a  little  muscular  exertion.  He  complained  to 
Morgan  Robertson.  Morg  gave  him  the  "  once- 
over," and  Inquired,  "  Have  you  ever  tried  mental 
suggestion  ?  No  ?  Well,  do  it !  Next  time  that  big 
stiff  comes  around,  just  look  him  straight  in  the  eye — 


SIDELIGHTS  ON  MORGAN  ROBERTSON     41 

see.  Don't  hesitate.  Look  him  straight  in  the  eye 
and   concentrate  your  mind   on  the  thought.      Just 

say,  '  Go  to  ,  you  blinkity-blank ! '     But  don't 

fail  to  hold  his  eye." 

A  few  days  later  the  laborer  approached  Morgan 
holding  his  own  eye,  which  was  pretty  well  bunged 
up  and  discolored.  His  entire  anatomy  also  reflected 
the  result  of  the  foreman's  rage.  With  what  little 
spirit  remained  he  protested.  "  You're  a  helluva 
fine  friend,  you  are !  "  said  he. 

With  great  disgust  Morgan  surveyed  the  wreck. 

"  Did  you  look  him  in  the  eye  ?  "  he  finally  thun- 
dered.    "And  did  you  concentrate?" 

"  Yes,"  whined  the  other,  "  and  I  beat  it  when  I 

got  the  chance.     I  told  him  to  '  Go  to  ,'  as  you 

told  me  to  do.     Now  look  what  he  handed  to  me !  " 

"  Did  you  let  him  HEAR  you.''  "  shouted  Morgan. 

"Sure;  can't  you  see  for  yourself.''"  forlornly 
responded  the  beaten  one. 

"  Well !  "  deliberated  Morgan,  "  what'd  you  ex- 
pect?" 

"  And  to  this  day,"  Morgan  would  conclude,  "  that 
same  gink  hasn't  got  through  his  cranium  the  dif- 
ference between  mental  suggestion  and  the  same 
thought  expressed  orally  in  plain  English.  Solid 
ivory,  I  call  it." 

This  is  typical  of  his  spun  yarns.  They  were 
far  from  the  Irvin  Cobb,  Bob  Davis,  Ro}^  and  Charles 
Somerville  "  bell-ringer  "  type,  and  the  last  to  be 
expected  from  the  master  narrator  of  original  fiction, 
as  reflected  in  his  "  Spun-Yarn  "  volume.     But  his 


42   MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

method  of  telling  made  them,  and  they  will  all  live 
permanently  in  the  minds  of  his  friends. 

Because  of  his  initial  success  with  "  Sinful  Peck  " 
and  "  Finnegan,"  there  was  a  constant  demand  from 
the  editors  for  this  type  of  humorous  material.  As 
his  vision  broadened  and  his  understanding  of  things 
occult  and  of  psychic  phenomena  became  clearer,  he 
evidenced  a  strong  inclination  to  concentrate  on  this 
line  of  thought.  But  the  majority  of  editors  denied 
him  space.  Fred.  Duneka,  General  Manager  of  Har- 
per &  Brothers,  and  Trumbull  White,  then  editor 
of  The  Red  Book,  did  most  to  encourage  his  inclina- 
tion in  this  direction. 

Telepathy,  hypnotism,  mental  suggestion,  dual 
personality,  extraordinary  inventions — this  sort  of 
thing  he  dearly  loved  to  conjure  with.  And  his 
fiction  inventions  took  practical  form,  also.  One  of 
these,  the  periscope,  was  adopted  for  submarine  use 
and  is  now  in  service.  In  my  judgment,  only  lack 
of  funds  and  the  driving  necessity  of  writing  the 
sort  of  fiction  that  would  sell,  prevented  his  suc- 
ceeding in  perfecting  his  invisible  searchlight.  In 
the  celebrated  five-by-twelve  bunkroom  on  West 
Twenty-fourth  Street,  he  managed,  by  means  of 
ultraviolet  rays,  to  make  remarkable  progress  with 
this  invention. 

One  of  the  most  amusing  incidents  I  ever  witnessed, 
where  Morgan  Robertson  was  concerned,  occurred  at 
my  Irving  Place  apartments.  Dan  O'Reilly,  the  cele- 
brated criminal  attorney,  had  been  stopping  with  me 
for  two  days  in  an  attempt  to  get  over  the  effects  of 


SIDELIGHTS  ON  MORGAN  ROBERTSON     43 

"  too  much  Irish  " ;  i.e.,  Joseph  O'Mara's  rendition 
of  Irish  songs,  a  large  quantity  of  Bushmills  and 
Cruiskeen  Lawn,  and  an  accommodating  fellow- 
countryman  from  the  Emerald  Isle  who  drove  a  green 
taxicab.  O'Mara's  "  Wearin'  of  the  Green "  had 
proved  the  climax.  Dan's  nerves,  considerably  on 
edge,  were  again  started  into  the  jumping-tooth  stage 
by  the  repeated  whistling  of  the  dumb-waiter  tube, 
the  constant  ringing  of  the  telephone  and  hall  door- 
bell, an  industrious  coal-heaver  putting  into  our  cellar 
a  ton  of  coal,  and  an  over-zealous  Italian  with  a  tin- 
panny  hurdy-gurdy  grinding  out,  ironically  enough, 
"  The  Wearin'  of  the  Green,"  with  "  Sweet  Marie  " 
as  a  relief. 

Dan  had  settled  himself  for  relaxation  on  the 
dining-room  couch.  It  was  a  mistake.  In  rushed 
Charlie  Somerville,  the  famous  journalist,  with  a 
bad  case  of  the  "jumps,"  only  to  be  followed  by 
Mrs.  G.,  and  her  friend,  a  poetess  of  passion.  They 
insisted  on  discussing  Christian  Science  versus  Mental 
Science,  suffrage,  and  poetry.  It  was  a  world  quite 
foreign  to  Dan.  Then  came  Morgan  Robertson, 
and  he  was  soon  enmeshed  in  the  argument.  His  best 
efforts  failed  to  switch  it  to  his  own  hobbies,  and 
he  sought  solace  from  a  bottle  of  Hennessy.  The 
whole  proposition  was  too  much  for  Charlie,  and  he 
made  for  "  The  Westminster,"  just  around  the 
corner,  for  a  different  kind  of  refreshment.  Roy 
Norton,  one  of  Morgan's  best  friends,  presented  him- 
self with  a  "  Blue-Monday  "  grouch.  A  story  had 
failed  to  sell.     Morgan  read  him  a  lecture,  intended 


44   MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

indirectly  for  Dan,  on  the  evils  of  alcohol,  every  now 
and  then  falling  back  on  "  Hennessy  "  for  support. 
He,  too,  had  occasion  for  resentment,  it  seemed.  His 
pet  story,  "  The  Grain  Ship,"  later  featured  in 
Harper's  Monthly,  had  gone  a-begging  and  he  was 
broke. 

Dan  brightened.  Here  were  waters  more  familiar 
to  him.  He  ventured  a  dip.  "  And  what  might  the 
story  be  about,  Morgan?"  he  inquired  with  that 
broad  smile  and  geniality  that  endeared  him  to  all 
who  knew  him. 

Cutting  the  words  into  sharp  syllables,  the  author 
ejaculated  viciously,  "  Hy-dro-pho-bic  rats!"  And 
with  a  growl  for  purposes  of  emphasis  he  repeated, 
"  Hy-dro-pho-bic  rats  ! !  Mad  dog  inoculates  rats  ! 
Mad  rats  run  wild !  Merry  hell  to  pay !  Great  ex- 
citement on  ship !  Sensational  story !  Best  I've 
ever  done ! " 

This  was  too  much  for  Dan,  who  beat  a  hasty 
retreat,  to  be  followed  by  Roy,  who  saw  no  hope 
for  Hennessy  relief,  the  ammunition  having  been 
exhausted.  Shortly  Morgan,  too,  departed,  and 
"  The  Westminster  "  then  found  the  entire  party  of 
male  celebrities  reunited. 


MY  SKIRMISH  WITH  MADNESS 
By  morgan  ROBERTSON 

Bozeman  Bidger  in  his  sketch  relates  the  circum- 
stances that  led  up  to  Morgan  Robertson's  volun- 
tarily placing  himself  as  a  patient  in  the  psychopathic 
ward  in  Bellevue  Hospital.  Serious  as  was  his  pre- 
dicament he  did  not  jail  to  appreciate  the  humor  of 
some  of  the  situations  in  which  he  found  himself. 
As  a  result  of  the  baseless  premonitions  that  he  was 
losing  his  reason  Morgan  Robertson  showed  a  boyish 
eagerness  to  have  everyone  with  whom  he  desired  to 
leave  an  impression  read  this  article,  which  was  orig- 
inally published  in  the  "  National  Sunday  Magazine." 
He  felt  that  it  explained  many  things  about  him  that 
others  did  not  understand. 

FOR  twelve  years  I  had  thought  that  in  me  was 
latent  insanity  that  only  needed  extra  mental 
strain  to  make  active.  The  usual  mental  strain  inci- 
dent to  short-story  writing  was  always  with  me,  and 
I  had  eased  it  by  moderate  drinking.  In  this  I  had 
a  better  excuse  than  had  Jack  London,  who  drank 
because  of  suggestion  and  availability,  but  I  do  not 
offer  it  as  an  excuse — only  as  an  explanation. 
Alcohol,  by  the  way,  never  was  a  mental  stimulant 
to  me,  only  an  inhibition  of  troubling  thought,  mainly 
of  my  coming  madness,  enabling  me  to  concentrate 

45 


46   MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

my  mind  on  my  work.  Until  my  physical  health 
gave  out  it  worked  well,  as  I  never  got  drunk  and 
could  always  turn  down  an  invitation  if  I  felt  that 
I  had  enough.  But  some  three  years  prior  to  this 
writing  I  met  with  an  accident,  and,  being  poor, 
sought  no  medical  attention.  So,  imbued  with  an 
early  code  of  conduct — which  decrees  that  a  man 
must  not  quit  work  until  he  drops  in  his  tracks — I 
limped  around  until  rheumatism  set  in.  For  years  I 
could  not  sleep  at  night  without  an  opiate.  And 
then  one  day,  with  fifteen  cents  in  my  pocket,  and 
not  knowing  where  the  next  money  was  to  come  from, 
I  told  my  trouble  to  a  friend  who  listened  sympa- 
thetically. 

"  The  hospital  for  you,"  he  said  at  length ;  and, 
for  half  an  hour  he  kept  the  telephone  busy,  calling 
up  the  powers  that  be  in  New  York,  then  said  to  me : 
"  Go  down  to  Bellevue  in  the  morning  and  see  the 
Medical  Superintendent.  I've  had  him  on  the  wire, 
and  he'll  take  care  of  you." 

And  now,  having  thrown  up  my  hands,  a  strange 
tranquillity  came  to  me,  utterly  at  variance  with 
my  habit  of  mind,  which  had  never  known  tran- 
quillity or  peace  except  after  some  temporary  vic- 
tory in  the  battle  of  life.  I  slept  well  that  night, 
and  with  the  nerve  of  a  gambler  signed  a  check 
for  a  good  breakfast  in  a  chop  house  where  I  had 
spent  much  money  and  owed  none,  then  with  my 
fifteen  cents  in  my  pocket,  started  for  Bellevue  Hos- 
pital, a  mile  distant.     I  remember  that  a  policeman 


MY  SKIRMISH  WITH  MADNESS        47 

stopped  me  close  to  the  hospital,  and  allowed  me 
to  proceed  on  my  staggering  way  when  I  stammered : 
"  Bellevue."  I  staggered  from  weakness,  for  I  had 
drunk  nothing  that  day.  The  next  I  remember  was 
talking  to  the  Medical  Superintendent,  a  man  who 
listened  to  me  kindly,  but  whose  face  I  would  not 
recognize  now. 

About  all  I  can  recall  of  the  interview  is  that  I  said 
I  needed  help  from  the  outside — that,  while  I  had  been 
able  to  advise  and  assist  others  in  trouble  I  could 
not  care  for  myself.  I  cannot  recall  what  he  said  to 
me,  or  whether  or  not  he  said  anything ;  but  I  know 
that  he  led  me  out  of  his  office,  across  the  grounds, 
and  into  a  two-story  brick  building  standing  alone. 
Here,  I  somewhat  came  to  myself  and  began  to  take 
notice.  I  was  left  in  the  presence  of  a  doctor  and 
a  white-clad  nurse. 

My  tranquillity  of  mind — or  was  it  apathy — ^was 
still  with  me,  though  I  was  now  shaking  convulsively 
and  my  thick  tongue  could  hardly  articulate  an  an- 
swer to  the  questions  of  the  doctor.  And  as  the  nurse 
led  me  through  a  door  into  a  ward — a  long,  wide  hall 
bordered  by  sleeping-rooms — this  mind  state  was  in 
nowise  disturbed  by  the  sight  of  a  man  on  his  knees 
before  an  armchair,  praying  fervently.  "  Some  poor 
devil  whose  time  has  come,"  I  thought,  as  I  followed 
the  nurse,  wondering,  too,  when  I  might  be  on  my 
knees. 

The  nurse  was  a  plump,  pretty  young  woman,  with 
smiHng  eyes,  and  as  she  led  me  into  a  room  turned 


48   MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

to  me  with  those  eyes  slightly  moist  and  her  face 
saddened  by  sympathy — genuine  sympathy,  as  I 
learned  later. 

"  Now,  you  poor  fellow,"  she  said,  "  take  off  your 
clothes  and  get  into  bed  for  a  good  rest.  I'll  help 
you  undress." 

"  Can  I  have  a  drink.''  "  I  answered,  selfishly,  not 
appreciating  the  sympathy  to  which  I  was  not  ac- 
customed. 

"  No;  but  I'll  bring  you  something  just  as  good. 
Let  me  help  you  with  that  necktie." 

I  had  thrown  off  my  outer  clothing,  and  she  re- 
moved my  collar  and  tie.  Then  she  pulled  down  my 
suspenders  and  began  unbuttoning  my  shirt ;  but  here 
I  balked.     I  was  ever  a  modest  man,  even  when  dying. 

"  You  must  be  undressed,"  she  said,  kindly,  yet 
firmly,  "  and  get  into  pajamas." 

I  sat  down  on  the  bed  and  looked  her  squarely  in 
the  face. 

"  Now,  you're  not  going  to  stay  here  while  I  un- 
dress, are  you?  "  I  asked,  as  kindly  and  firmly  as  I 
could  in  my  agitation. 

"Would  you  rather  I'd  go?  Can  you  undress 
alone?  " 

"  I  can,"  I  replied  promptly. 

"  I'll  send  in  a  man,"  she  said,  and  departed. 

A  white-clad  male  nurse — a  pleasant-faced  young 
giant — came  in  with  a  book,  and  stripped  me  down. 
Then  he  entered  my  various  measurements  in  the 
book,  and  stowed  my  limp  limbs  into  a  suit  of 
pajamas. 


MY  SKIRMISH  WITH  MADNESS        49 

"  Going  to  take  my  finger-tips  ?  "  I  asked,  as  I 
looked  at  the  book. 

"  Going  to  kill  anybody?  "  he  asked  in  answer. 

"  I  may,"  I  said,  thinking  of  some  editors  I  knew. 
"  That  is,  if  I  get  well." 

"  Forget  it.  You'll  never  kill  anything."  I  won- 
dered what  he  meant,  as  I  turned  in. 

My  friendly  nurse  returned  and  gave  me  a  dose  of 
aromatic  ammonia.  Then,  when  the  nerves  within  me 
had  straightened  out  a  little,  another  nurse  arrived. 
She  was  a  slim  girl,  with  a  sweet  face  and  pleasant 
voice,  and  she  gave  me  a  tablet  and  a  swallow  of 
water.  "  You're  to  take  one  every  half  hour  until 
you've  had  six,"  she  said. 

"Do  I  get  anything  to  eat.-^  "  I  asked,  as  the 
rattle  of  dishes  came  to  my  ears. 

"  Not  until  supper  time.    You're  dieting  to-day." 

"  Well,  can  I  have  a  smoke  ?  I  brought  my  pipe 
and  tobacco." 

"  You  must  ask  the  doctor,"  she  said  evasively. 

No  doctor  appeared,  and  I  made  the  best  of  it 
until,  when  she  brought  the  third  tablet,  she  also 
brought  a  piece  of  plug  chewing  tobacco  and  a  cus- 
pidor. 

"  Don't  overdo  it,"  she  said,  "  but  I  know  you  are 
suffering  for  a  smoke,  and  this  will  take  away  the 
craving." 

She  was  right.  I  had  not  chewed  tobacco  for  a 
great  many  years,  and  a  small  morsel  of  that  plug 
went  a  long  way.  I  talked  with  this  girl  until  her 
duties  called  her,  and  felt  that  we  were  getting  ac- 


50   MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

quainted ;  but  when  my  fourth  tablet  was  given  me 
and  I  resumed  the  conversation  I  was  surprised  at 
the  nurse's  lack  of  response. 

"  Do  you  chew  tobacco?  "  she  said,  as  she  noticed 
the  plug  on  the  window-sill. 

"  Why,  you  gave  it  to  me,"  I  answered,  "  to  stop 
the  craving  for  a  smoke." 

"  I?  "  she  laughed.  "  Why,  I'm  just  back  from 
lunch.  I  was  going  out  when  you  were  admitted,  but 
I'm  taking  care  of  you  now.  You  must  take  me  for 
Miss " 

She  pronounced  a  Russian  or  Polish  name  which 
I  cannot  yet  pronounce,  nor  spell. 

I  looked  at  her,  but  could  not  believe  her.  My 
defective  mental  vision  would  not  separate  the  two 
girls,  yet  in  physique,  voice,  and  temperament,  they 
were  opposites.  Not  until  the  next  day  could  I  tell 
which  was  which,  though  that  afternoon  they  often 
visited  my  room  together.  I  have  gone  into  this  detail 
to  show  that  I  was  pretty  far  gone. 

This  third  nurse  deserves  a  better  description  than 
I  can  give  her,  not  because  of  her  beauty,  though  it 
was  of  an  order  to  first  impress  a  normal  observer. 
It  did  not  impress  me  at  all,  and  now,  as  I  write, 
I  cannot  visualize  her  face,  and  perhaps  would  not 
know  her  in  the  street  without  her  white  uniform 
and  cap.  It  was  her  wonderful  personality  that  sank 
into  my  soul  and  made  me  respect  her,  admire  her, 
and  at  last  fear  her.  She  had  a  rich,  strong,  musical 
voice  that  encompassed  at  least  two  octaves  in 
ordinary  conversation,  and  when  used  in  accents  of 


MY  SKIR:\nSH  WITH  MADNESS        51 

command — for  she  was  head  nurse,  though  the 
youngest  of  all — held  a  carrying  power  that  sent  it 
to  every  comer  of  the  ward  and  adjoining  rooms. 
When  able  to  get  up  and  watch  her  at  her  duties  I 
called  her  the  Chief  Mate — mentally. 

When  she  had  given  me  my  sixth  and  last  tablet 
on  that  first  day  she  took  me  by  the  hand.  It  was 
always  pleasant  to  hold  a  girl's  hand,  but  this  ex- 
perience was  especially  so.  A  delicious,  tingling 
thrill  went  up  my  arm,  and  I  reached  for  her  other 
hand,  to  hold  that,  too ;  but  she  forestalled  me  by 
clasping  me  gently  by  the  wrist,  while  she  smiled 
at  me.  I  did  not  know  then  that  this  gentle  hand- 
clasp was  a  jiu  jitsu  grip  that  would  have  dislocated 
my  shoulder  had  I  deserved  it ;  but  I  did  not  deserve 
it.  Some  inner  consciousness  had  always  protected 
me  in  such  emergencies,  and  I  remained  quiescent 
with  one  small  hand  in  my  loosening  fingers  and 
the  other  around  my  wrist.  Then  I  seemed  floating 
away  in  the  air,  and  when  I  wakened  the  supper 
dishes  were  rattling,  and  I  was  steady  of  nerve, 
rested,  and  ravenous.  With  a  smile  and  a  hand-clasp 
she  had  given  me  nearly  three  hours  of  blessed  sleep. 

What  is  this  marvelous  power  or  emanation 
from  one  human  being  to  another  which  has 
been  called  mesmerism,  animal  magnetism,  odic  force, 
and  seems  to  be  the  basic  law  of  all  the  New 
Thought  cults.'*  It  is  stronger  than  hypnotism,  for  it 
does  not  demand  the  consent  of  the  subject.  Once, 
in  a  Turkish  bath,  a  big,  red-headed  Irishman  laid 
me  out  to  rub  me  down.     He  had  a  low,  retreating 


52   MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

forehead,  a  brutal  face,  and  apparently  just  enough 
of  intelligence  to  hold  his  job.  He  rubbed,  kneaded, 
punched,  and  thumped  me.  He  hurt  me ;  I  thought 
I  could  feel  my  ribs  cracking  and  my  joints  un- 
coupling, yet  I  could  not  utter  a  word  in  protest, 
and  finally  under  his  painful  manipulations  sank 
into  unconsciousness  and  was  aroused  by  the  cold 
shower  when  he  had  finished.  Whatever  this  mys- 
terious force  is,  that  big  brute  possessed  it  in  com- 
mon with  this  gentle,  delicate  girl. 

But  she  did  not  use  it  on  me  again.  That  evening 
the  doctors  went  the  rounds  and  I  was  put  under 
regular  treatment,  which  included  sedatives.  I  asked 
for  a  smoke,  and  was  told  that,  when  able  to  get 
up  I  could  go  outdoors  and  smoke,  but  not  in  the 
ward.  As  for  thirty-five  years  my  pipe,  practically, 
had  never  grown  cold,  my  craving  for  a  smoke  may 
be  imagined,  especially  as,  when  the  ward  had  quieted 
down  at  about  nine,  and  lights  were  turned  off,  distant 
shouts,  whoops,  and  screams  kept  me  awake.  It  re- 
quired a  second  sedative  to  put  me  to  sleep. 

All  that  day,  as  I  lay  in  bed,  satisfied  that  I  was 
being  cared  for,  I  had  been  annoyed  by  a  man  clad 
in  a  red  and  white  striped  bath-robe  who  would  stop 
in  front  of  my  door  and  peer  in  at  me,  sometimes 
glaring  wildly,  again  grimacing.  As  a  matter  of 
fact  there  were  several  such  men — patients  able  to 
be  up — ^but  to  me,  as  in  the  case  of  the  two  nurses, 
there  was  but  one.  In  the  morning,  however,  while 
waiting  for  my  breakfast,  I  was  able  to  differ- 
entiate; I  at  least  knew  a  black  man  from  a  white. 


MY  SKIRMISH  WITH  MADNESS        53 

and  when  a  sad-faced  man-and-brother  looked  in  at 
me  I  knew  it  was  not  the  ill-bred  person  of  the  day 
before,  even  though  he  wore  a  striped  bath-robe. 

But  my  new  visitor  went  him  one  better.  As  he 
stared  at  my  recumbent  figure  the  sadness  left  his 
face ;  it  took  on  a  wide,  delighted  smile ;  then  he 
began  to  laugh,  softly  at  first,  then  unrestrainedly. 
Nodding  and  wagging  his  head,  his  eyes  half  closed 
and  his  mouth  wide  open,  he  backed  away  from  my 
door,  and  his  laughter  died  away  as  he  went  down 
the  ward.  No  doubt  he  was  happy — and  I  like  to 
make  people  happy ;  but  I  do  not  like  to  be  laughed 
at.  Sensitiveness  to  ridicule  has  always  been  my  pet 
weakness,  and  I  felt  humiliated  and  hurt. 

Again  that  sad,  somber  countenance  appeared  at 
my  door ;  again  it  expanded  to  a  huge  smile,  and 
broke  into  fragments  as  his  joyous  laughter  rang 
out.  He  backed  away  again,  apparently  unable  to 
stand  the  sight  of  me,  and  I  began  to  be  annoyed.  I 
had  no  mirror  at  hand,  but  I  looked  at  my  shoulders, 
arms,  and  hands — all  that  I  could  see  of  m3"self. 
There  was  nothing  to  laugh  at,  I  thought.  But  he 
came  again,  looked  me  over,  and  as  he  began  to 
chuckle  I  felt  ray  hair  tingle  down  to  the  back  of  my 
neck. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at.''"  I  demanded. 

"  I'se  laughin'  at  you,  boss,"  he  answered,  his  smile 
still  with  him,  but  in  a  state  of  arrested  development. 

"  What's  wrong  with  me?  " 

"  I  dunno,  boss,  but  I  jess  got  to  laugh  at  you, 
suh.    You  look  so  funny." 


54   MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

"  Get  to  h— 1  away  out  of  this,"  I  yelled,  "  or  I'll 
beat  your  brains  out  with  this  pillow."  I  sat  up 
and  grabbed  the  pillow,  the  only  missile  at  hand — 
not  a  very  hard  pillow,  but  not  so  soft,  I  felt,  as  his 
brain.  He  backed  away  with  a  frightened  look  in  his 
face,  and  I  never  saw  him  again.  But  he  had  given 
me  something  to  think  about. 

"  Softening  of  the  brain,"  I  said  to  myself,  as  I 
sank  back,  shaking  in  every  limb  from  excitement. 
Then  I  remembered  the  shrieks  and  screams  of  the 
day  before,  and  when  one  of  the  night  nurses  ap- 
peared with  my  breakfast  I  asked  her  where  I  was. 

"  The  psychopathic  ward,"  she  answered.  "  Didn't 
you  know?  " 

So,  I  had  come  to  my  Kingdom  at  last.  I  was  in 
the  famous,  or — as  I  had  always  thought — the  in- 
famous psychopathic  ward  of  Bellevue  Hospital, 
the  place  where  sane  men  were  incarcerated  for  trivial 
reasons  and  driven  insane  by  the  environment  and 
treatment.  Did  the  darkness  of  desolation  and 
despair  close  down  on  my  soul.'*  Not  a  bit.  I  was 
used  to  the  thought,  and  had  merely  forgotten  it  re- 
cently in  view  of  my  physical  condition.  I  felt  that 
my  life's  work  was  done,  and  that  while  I  had  not 
rounded  out  my  life  by  forgiving  all  my  enemies  and 
paying  all  my  debts,  this  might  be  condoned  in  con- 
sideration of  the  energy  I  had  expended  and  the 
penalty  I  had  paid.  The  Medical  Superintendent 
had  diagnosed  my  case  correctly,  and  placed  me 
where  I  belonged — in  a  madhouse,  to  die.     And  they 


AfF  SKIR:\nSH  WITH  MADNESS        55 

were  all  good  to  me  because  I  was  doomed.     So,  I 
was  content ;  but  I  did  want  a  smoke. 

After  breakfast  the  day  watch  came  on;  and  the 
nurse  appeared  with  her  arms  full  of  sheets  and 
pillow  slips,  and  turned  me  out  of  bed.  *'  Go  out  in 
the  ward,"  she  said,  "  and  walk  up  and  down  a  little, 
while  I  change  the  sheets.  Clean  sheets  every  morn- 
ing, here."  I  obeyed  her,  and  had  the  first  good 
look  at  the  place  where  I  expected  to  end  my  days. 
It  was  about  a  hundred  feet  long  and  sixteen  wide, 
bordered,  as  I  have  said,  by  rooms,  five  of  which 
were  reading-room,  linen-room,  lavatory,  kitchen  and 
bathroom,  the  rest  sleeping  rooms,  each  containing 
two  beds.  Running  down  the  center  of  the  ward 
was  an  eight  foot  wide  length  of  fiber  which,  like 
the  hardwood  borders,  was  given  a  dancing  floor 
polish  with  floor  wax.  About  twenty  patients,  all 
clad  in  striped  bath-robes,  pajamas,  and  slippers, 
were  cleaning  up,  sweeping  and  dusting,  under  the 
direction  of  the  male  nurses,  or  orderlies.  A  few 
were  pushing  square  castings  padded  on  the  under 
side  back  and  forth  from  end  to  end  of  the  ward, 
polishing  that  more  than  slippery  fiber  mat.  I 
thought  this  was  merely  to  exercise  the  patients,  as 
nothing,  it  seemed,  could  improve  the  polish.  A 
few  eyes  were  staring  or  glaring,  a  few  faces  were 
twitching,  and  some  of  the  workers  muttered  unin- 
telligibly; but  there  was  no  conversation.  It  was  a 
depressing  spectacle,  and  I  returned  to  my  room, 
where  I  found  that  my  nurse  now  had  an  assistant, 


56   MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

a  middle-aged,  very  effeminate  person,  who  chattered 
volubly  and  seemed  to  hamper  her  more  than  help 
her. 

"  Anything  I  can  do  ?  "  I  asked,  weakly,  yet  willing 
to  be  of  use. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  with  a  smile.  "  You  can  lie 
right  down  on  this  bed  and  stay  there.  I'll  cover 
you  up." 

She  chased  the  sissy  out,  and  I  stretched  myself 
on  the  bed.  She  spread  the  bed  clothing  over  me, 
arranged  the  pillows  carefully,  and  tucked  me  in. 
The  situation  brought  back  memories  of  my  child- 
hood, and  as  I  looked  up  at  her  pleasant,  sunny 
face  I  almost  involuntarily  uttered  the  word 
"  mother."  She  smiled  down  on  me,  patted  my  cheek, 
and  left  me.  "  Mother  "  was  my  name  for  her  after 
that.  I  could  not  pronounce  her  real  name,  and  had 
to  call  her  something.  She  deserves  to  be  a  mother 
— a  happy  mother,  too. 

But  the  utterance  of  the  word  "  mother  "  threw  me 
into  a  mood  unknown  for  years,  and  soon  the  tears 
came,  hot,  copious  and  scalding,  streaming  down 
my  cheeks  in  two  steady  currents  and  wetting  the 
pillow.  I  shifted  my  head,  and  then  turned  the  pil- 
low, but  not  until  the  slip  was  soaked  did  the  flood 
cease.  Then,  ashamed  of  the  weakness,  I  traded 
pillows  with  the  other  bed,  and  when  "  mother " 
came  back  with  medicine  she  did  not  notice.  But 
the  tears  did  me  good.  I  know  several  other  rough- 
necks who  would  benefit  by  a  few  tears,  brought  on, 
preferably,  by  physical  distress. 


MY  SKIRMISH  WITH  MADNESS        57 

I  slept  most  of  that  day,  and  was  wakened  by  the 
little  Chief  Mate,  who  brought  me  my  supper  and 
gave  TJie  a  name — one  that  I  liked.  I  have  been 
called  several  different  kinds  of  names  in  my  journey 
through  this  life,  but  I  never  liked  them  and  never 
accepted  them.  Now  I  received  one  that  sounded 
good. 

"  Here,  OLD  SOUL,"  she  said,  in  her  rich,  musical 
voice,  "  is  something  to  eat.    Will  it  be  enough?  " 

It  was  a  good  invalid's  supper,  but  I've  been  a 
lifelong  meat  eater,  and  I  asked  for  meat.  She 
brought  it.  Then  I  wanted  to  hold  hands  again, 
but  all  I  got  was  that  gentle  jiu  jitsu  grip.  How- 
ever, I  was  given  a  smoke  next  day,  which,  as  I  had 
been  forty-eight  hours  without  one,  did  me  nearly  as 
much  good.  The  house  doctor  took  me  into  the 
office,  and  noticing  my  impatience  while  waiting  for 
my  pipe  and  tobacco,  gave  me  a  cigar.  "  Kindness 
to  the  damned,"  I  mused,  gloomily,  as  I  puffed. 

But  I  was  mistaken.  And  I  want  to  say  before 
going  further,  that  while  in  that  place  I  received 
nothing  but  genuine  sympathy  and  genuine  kindness 
from  every  member  of  the  staff,  from  the  head  doctor 
down  to  the  cook,  and  not  one  word  of  criticism  or 
admonition.  Meanwhile,  my  health  was  improving, 
so  much  so  that  I  began  to  take  an  impersonal  interest 
in  the  Annex. 

The  Annex  is  a  small  ward  in  the  rear  of  the 
large  one,  separated  from  it  by  a  locked  door  at  the 
end  of  that  long  fiber  mat.  It  is  where  the  violent 
cases  are  placed  as  soon  as  admitted,  and  is  a  place 


58   MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

of  punishment  for  those  who  break  out  occasionally. 
From  it  emanated  the  whoops,  yelps,  shrieks,  and 
screams  I  had  heard  the  first  day  and  night,  which 
sounded  like  the  barkings  of  a  kennel  full  of  collie 
dogs,  and  which  I  had  now  grown  used  to.  It  was 
given  me  to  watch,  on  my  first  day  out  of  bed,  the 
skill  and  celerity  with  which  those  trained  orderlies 
could  shoot  a  "  nut  "  into  the  Annex,  or,  as  I  called 
it,  the  Booby  Hatch.  A  tall,  serious,  intellectual 
looking  patient  left  his  bed  clad  only  in  pajamas; 
then  seeking  the  middle  of  the  ward,  lifted  his  right 
hand  high  above  his  head  and  began  the  Lord's 
Prayer  in  a  loud,  sonorous  voice.  He  had  got  as  far 
as  "  Thy  Kingdom  come ! "  when  at  a  signal  from 
the  Chief  Mate,  two  orderlies  seized  him  by  the  collar 
and  arms,  one  each  side.  They  pushed  him  ahead, 
and  naturally  his  knees  stiffened;  then  they  tilted 
him  back  until  he  raked  like  the  mainmast  of  an 
old-fashioned  schooner-of-war,  and  they  slid  him,  feet 
first,  the  prayer  still  going,  and  the  little  Chief  Mate 
running  ahead  with  her  keys,  until,  with  a  final  roar- 
ing "  AMEN,"  he  shot  into  the  Annex  and  the  door 
closed  on  him.  I  never  saw  him  again.  It  would 
have  been  ludicrous  had  it  not  been  so  pathetic,  and 
no  one  seemed  amused  but  a  defective  boy  beside  me 
on  a  settee.  He  snickered,  and  I  looked  reprovingly 
at  him. 

On  the  next  day  I  was  allowed  liberty  to  go  out 
in  the  grounds  and  smoke  all  I  wanted  to  and  as 
often.  I'm  afraid  I  was  somewhat  of  a  trial  to  the 
nurses,  who  alone  had  keys  to  the  locked  doors,  for, 


MY  SKIRMISH  WITH  MADNESS^        59 

clad  only  in  pajamas  and  slippers,  with  the  uniform 
bath-robe,  I  could  not  stay  out  long  on  account  of 
the  cold,  nor  indoors  long  on  account  of  my  craving 
for  a  smoke.  I  would  stand  near  the  rear  side  door 
of  the  ward,  waiting  for  a  nurse  to  come  near  and 
see  me.  Once,  a  nurse  spied  me  from  far  up  the 
ward  and  called  out  to  another,  nearer  to  me ;  "  Miss 

,  let  the  dog  out,"  and  the  door  was  opened  for 

me  with  injunctions  not  to  bark  loud  or  chase  cats. 
Again,  one  of  them  passed  close  while  I  patiently 
waited,  and  eyeing  me  with  mock  sternness,  opened 
the  door,  and  as  I  slipped  out  remarked,  "  S-h-s-s-s- 
scat !  " 

Outside,  running  along  the  full  length  of  the  two 
wards,  was  a  covered  runway,  floored  with  smooth 
planking  and  lighted  by  windows.  Though  cold  as 
outdoors,  it  was  sheltered  from  the  wind,  and  made  a 
famous  place  for  exercise.  Still,  in  my  slippered  feet 
and  scant  apparel  I  needed  to  walk  fast  and  far  to 
keep  my  blood  circulating.  However,  I  got  partial 
relief  one  day.  I  stood  for  a  moment  at  the  en- 
trance to  this  runway,  and  saw  coming  toward  me 
from  the  main  building  a  patient  whom  I  had  noticed 
a  few  days  back  walking  up  and  down  the  ward,  wild 
of  eye  and  holding  conversation  with  himself.  Then 
I  had  seen  him  led  to  the  Annex,  and  I  suppose  that 
from  there  he  had  gone  to  a  ward  in  the  main  building 
for  special  treatment  of  some  organic  trouble.  With 
an  orderly  at  each  side  of  him  he  came  along  quietly 
enough  until  they  led  him  into  the  runway ;  then  he 
broke  loose  with  a  torrent  of  profanity,  and  struggled 


60       MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  IVIAN 

furiously.  Sane  or  insane,  he  knew  he  was  being 
taken  to  the  Booby  Hatch,  and  resented  it.  But  it 
did  him  no  good — harm,  rather,  for  he  lost  one 
slipper.  They  had  given  him  the  preliminary  push 
ahead  to  make  him  stiffen  his  knees,  then  canted  him 
back  for  a  long  slide ;  but  the  floor  was  rough,  and 
he  would  not  slide ;  so,  his  progress  down  the  run- 
way was  a  succession  of  jumps,  in  one  of  which  he 
lost  the  slipper.  I  secured  it  and  finding  it  new, 
thick-soled  and  warm,  donned  it,  leaving  my  own  in 
its  place.  From  that  time  on  one  foot  was  warm, 
the  other  cold;  but  I  was  impartial,  and  changed 
slippers  occasionally.  And,  as  I  walked  and  pon- 
dered on  the  incident  there  came  to  my  mind  the  swift 
transit  of  the  prayerful  man  into  the  Annex,  and  I 
knew  now  why  they  kept  that  fiber  mat  so  shiny 
and  smooth.  It  was  not  only  to  give  exercise  to 
the  "  nuts "  but  to  make  it  easy  to  slide  them 
along. 

The  psychopathic  ward  is  a  clearing  house  between 
the  various  police  courts  and  the  asylums.  Patients 
came  in  singly  at  all  hours  of  the  day  and  night, 
and  went  out  in  bunches,  to  Central  Islip,  Ward's 
Island,  or  elsewhere.  In  less  than  a  week  I  was  the 
patriarch  of  the  ward;  all  who  had  entered  before 
me  had  gone  to  some  asylum  except  one,  a  quiet, 
elderly  man  who  went  home  in  the  care  of  his  wife. 
I  do  not  know  what  trouble  of  mind  brought  him 
there;  perhaps  it  was  like  my  own,  for  during  my 
stay  he  and  I  were  the  only  ones  to  be  released.  I 
will  say  in  passing  that  I  had  not  yet  discovered  what 


MY  SKIRMISH  WITH  MADNESS        61 

my  mental  trouble  really  was,  even  though  I  had 
studied  up  the  various  'phobias  and  manias,  and 
tested  myself  for  the  symptoms :  I  had  them  all. 

No  man  is  a  judge  of  his  own  mental  condition, 
though  he  may  judge  the  mental  condition  of  others. 
On  the  day  when  the  very  effeminate  person  was 
scolding  "  mother,"  a  heavy-set,  middle-aged  German, 
with  a  serious,  intelligent  face,  watched  him  awhile, 
then,  catching  my  eye,  smiled  and  tapped  his  fore- 
head. He  could  not  speak  English,  but  the  world- 
known  gesture  indicated  his  belief  that  the  effeminate 
person  was  insane.  Yet,  this  man,  after  sitting 
around  in  the  chairs  that  day  and  part  of  the  next, 
apparently  much  interested  in  his  surroundings,  sud- 
denly sprang  to  his  feet  and  went  berserk,  roaring 
out  inarticulate  words  in  German.  The  Chief  Mate 
was  at  lunch,  but  as  it  was  a  clear  case  for  the 
Booby  Hatch,  the  nurse  in  charge  signaled  to  the 
only  orderly  on  duty  at  the  time,  a  powerfully  built 
young  fellow  named  Sullivan.  I  give  his  real  name, 
for  I  like  to  give  such  a  man  credit  and  publicity. 
It  was  he  who  had  taken  my  dimensions  when  going 
to  bed  on  the  first  day.  He  was  of  Danish  blood, 
I  was  told,  in  spite  of  his  name,  and  he  had  the 
smooth,  pink  face  and  clear,  steady  gray  eyes  of  an 
intelligent  boy.  He  took  the  lunatic  by  the  arm, 
and  met  resistance;  then,  so  quickly  that  I  could  not 
follow  the  maneuver,  Sullivan  was  behind  him,  with 
his  right  arm  pinioning  the  two  arms  of  the  other. 
The  man  was  helpless  ;  he  could  not  wrench  his  elbows, 
drawn  near  together  at  his  back,  free  from  Sullivan's 


62      MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

grip.  He  bellowed  like  an  angry  bull,  and  swayed 
back  and  forth,  dragging  Sullivan  around  the  floor. 
I  have  read  that  the  formula  of  a  maniac's  strength  is 
seven  times  the  normal.  If  so,  Sullivan  exerted 
seven  times  his  normal  strength,  for  he  mastered 
him.  Not  a  word  did  he  say,  nor  did  he  use  his 
left  arm,  hanging  limply  at  his  side;  but  his  face 
showed  the  strain  he  was  under.  The  corners  of  his 
mouth  drooped,  and  his  smooth  brow  corrugated  to 
tense,  deep  wrinkles.  Back  and  forth  they  swung, 
the  madman  roaring  at  every  breath ;  then  he  sud- 
denly sank  to  the  floor.  Sullivan  sank  with  him, 
rested  a  moment,  and  with  hardly  an  apparent  effort, 
stood  erect,  bringing  that  hundred  and  eighty  pounds 
of  German  lunacy  with  him.  Then  the  incoherent 
roaring  was  resumed,  and  it  continued  until  the  little 
Chief  Mate  arrived.  She  laid  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder,  he  quieted  down,  and  Sullivan,  bleeding 
from  four  fingernail  gashes  on  the  back  of  his  left 
hand,  that  looked  as  though  made  by  a  Bengal  tiger's 
claws,  released  him,  and  the  Chief  Mate  led  him  to 
the  Annex. 

Hats  off'  to  Sullivan,  with  the  physical  strength 
of  a  maniac  and  the  self-control  and  forbearance  of  a 
gentleman.  He  painted  his  wounds  with  iodine  and 
resumed  duty  with  nothing  to  say. 

By  this  time  I  was  thoroughly  afraid  of  that  Chief 
Mate.  She  faced  me  in  the  middle  of  the  ward  that 
day,  smiled  in  my  face,  patted  me  on  the  chest, 
poked  me  in  the  ribs,  and  for  a  moment  fooled  me 
into  the  thought  that  she  was  affectionately  caressing 


MY  SKIRMISH  WITH  MADNESS        63 

me.  But  she  was  not,  she  was  going  through  my 
pockets,  looking  for  matches,  knives,  toothpicks,  or 
other  implements  by  which  I  might  do  harm  to  myself 
or  other  "  nuts." 

Like  the  girls,  men  nurses,  or  orderlies,  seemed 
to  have  been  selected  for  temperamental  qualities, 
plus  physical  strength.  Each  one  was  intelligent, 
good  natured,  and  gentlemanly.  One,  a  night  man 
in  the  Annex,  was  the  largest  human  being  I  have 
ever  seen  outside  of  a  circus  or  a  museum.  He  must 
have  been  six  inches  over  six  feet  in  height  and  about 
thirty  inches  across  the  shoulders :  but  he  was  so 
correctly  proportioned  that  at  a  distance,  standing 
alone,  he  seemed  of  ordinary  size.  It  was  only  when 
close  to  him  that  one  could  realize  his  enormous  dis- 
placement. In  his  white  uniform  he  suggested  a 
battleship ;  he  moved  slowly,  but  covered  ground. 
And  a  few  nights  after  Sullivan's  battle  there  came 
a  time  when  his  strength  was  needed. 

The  defective  boy  I  have  spoken  of  had  become  a 
nuisance.  He  was  about  eighteen,  and  full  grown, 
but  had  the  innocent  face  of  a  nine-year-old  child, 
and  the  warm-hearted  girl  nurses  made  much  of  him. 
I  often  thought  that  what  he  really  needed  was,  not 
the  attention  of  alienists,  but  a  rope's-end  four  times 
a  day,  after  meals  and  at  bedtime.  I  may  have 
been  prejudiced,  but  boys,  especially  noisy,  singing, 
whistling  boys  like  him,  were  always  my  dearest  antip- 
athy. This  boy  suffered  from  exaggerated  Ego.  He 
was  the  center  of  the  universe,  and  the  ward,  the 
whole  staff,  and  the  patients  were  made  for  his  amuse- 


64   MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

ment.  He  was  never  still  a  minute  except  when 
asleep ;  he  shouted  between  mouthfuls  at  his  meals ; 
his  special  delight  was  in  tormenting  the  weak, 
helpless,  and  nervous  old  men  who  daily  drifted  in. 
He  would  enter  the  reading-room  and  scatter  the  in- 
mates to  the  outer  ward.  He  would  follow  and 
drive  them  back.  He  would  not  listen  to  admonition, 
or  requests  that  he  be  silent.  He  got  so  on  my 
frazzled  nerves  that  when  I  learned  that  he  was 
going  to  Ward's  Island  I  was  nearly  as  pleased  as 
I  was  at  my  own  release  when  it  came.  He  was 
strong  as  a  bull,  had  been  arrested  on  the  street  and 
had  taken  the  policeman's  club  away  from  him  be- 
fore being  conquered.  This  had  induced  the  magis- 
trate to  send  him  to  the  psychopathic  ward  for 
examination. 

On  the  day  he  learned  that  he  was  listed  for 
Ward's  Island  he  grew  worse,  shouting,  singing,  and 
whistling,  entering  the  rooms  and  teasing  the  mental 
wrecks  in  bed,  and  becoming  so  offensive  that  he 
was  several  times  led  to  the  Booby  Hatch  for  punish- 
ment, always,  however,  to  be  taken  back  when  he  had 
aroused  the  more  violent  inmates  there  to  an  uproar. 
Only  the  little  Chief  Mate  could  quiet  him;  but  at 
seven  in  the  evening  she  went  off  duty  and  the  head 
night  nurse  had  charge.  We  had  all  turned  in, 
waiting  for  him  to  subside  so  that  we  could  go  to 
sleep ;  but  he  grew  noisier  as  the  evening  progressed. 
Then  I  heard,  between  his  shouts  and  whoops,  the 
voice  of  the  night  nurse  saying  to  an  orderly :  "  Put 
him  in  the  Annex  for  the  night." 


MY  SKIRMISH  WITH  MADNESS        65 

"  I  can't  do  it  alone,"  came  the  answer. 

"  Get  help,  and  when  he  quiets  down  give  him  a 
cold  shower." 

A  cold  shower,  be  it  known  to  those  who  have 
not  tried  it,  is  the  much  misunderstood  "  water  cure  " 
of  the  Philippines,  and  is  an  excellent  sedative  for 
nerves,  but  something  of  a  punishment  to  anyone 
not  accustomed  to  it.  I  now  was  interested,  but 
not  in  his  nerves.  I  heard  footsteps  from  the  Annex, 
and  a  terse  command  to  the  boy  to  "  get  up,"  fol- 
lowed by  his  loud  protest.  Then  there  were  the 
sounds  of  a  struggle,  followed  by  a  derisive  whoop  of 
victory  from  the  boy.  Then  more  footsteps,  then 
more  shouts,  screams,  and  oaths  from  the  boy.  He 
was  now  thoroughly  insane;  and  it  was  not  until  a 
third  reinforcement  arrived  from  the  Annex  that  I 
could  tell  by  the  sounds  that  he  was  being  dragged — 
not  slid — back  to  the  Booby  Hatch,  Hospital 
etiquette  forbade  my  getting  up  to  witness  his  Water- 
loo, but  the  uproar  of  sounds  from  beyond  the  door 
told  me  that  the  lunatics  in  the  Annex  had  joined 
him  in  his  mood.  In  half  an  hour  the  barkings 
ceased,  and  I  heard  the  splash  of  the  shower  bath, 
and  the  grievous  screams  of  the  boy ;  then  cam.e  his 
whimpering  plaint  as  he  was  led  back  to  bed,  then 
silence,  and  I  rolled  over  to  sleep,  happier  than  I 
had  been  since  I  had  held  hands  with  the  Chief  Mate. 
To  such  depths  of  hateful  malevolence  can  a  spoiled 
child  bring  a  sick  man.  In  the  morning  a  patient 
who  roomed  near  the  Annex  told  me  that  it  had 
taken  five  orderlies,  including  the  giant,  to  drag  that 


66   MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

animated  pork  past  his  door.    He  was  a  good  bo}'  all 
next  day ;  he  was  asleep,  on  the  reading-room  floor. 

Meanwhile  I  gained  strength  daily,  taking  longer 
walks  in  the  runway  and  cold  showers  every  morning. 
This  brought  a  curious  comment  from  a  kind  old 
fellow-patient  who  noticed  it. 

"  You  know,"  he  said,  "  that  this  is  the  observa- 
tion room  of  the  psychopathic  ward,  don't  you.'' 
Well,  everything  we  do  is  observed  by  the  nurses,  and 
an  entry  made  in  the  books.  If  we  argue,  quarrel, 
or  do  anything  unusual,  it  counts  against  us,  and  if 
they  think  we  are  in  any  way  crazy  they'll  ship  us 
off  to  some  place  where  we'll  never  get  out.  Don't 
take  any  more  cold  baths." 

I  was  half  inclined  to  follow  his  advice;  for  the 
psychopathic  ward,  compared  to  what  I  had  heard 
about  asylums,  was  a  very  pleasant  place.  It  had 
been  a  haven  of  refuge  to  me,  a  place  to  come  to  and 
die  in,  surrounded  by  sympathetic  girls  and  men,  who 
had  shown  me  more  kindness  than  I  had  ever  received 
from  strangers.  But  I  had  graduated  physically 
beyond  the  need  and  appreciation  of  this  kindness; 
the  sight  and  sounds  of  my  fellow-patients  now 
irritated  me.  The  chief  annoyances  of  my  life  since 
I  began  writing  have  been  noisy  boys,  barking  dogs, 
practicing  musicians  and  soloists,  and  effeminate  men. 
Excepting  the  dogs,  whose  place  was  filled  by  the 
lunatics  in  the  Annex,  I  had  all  these  annoyances 
around  me — close  to  me,  and  I  could  not  escape  them. 
The  ward  became  crowded  about  this  time  and  I  now- 
had    a   room-mate,    a    talkative    young   man   whose 


]VIY  SKIRMISH  WITH  MADNESS        67 

vocabulary  was  large.  There  was  much  conversation 
in  the  evening  before  "  lights  out,"  but  my  share  was 
included  in  the  two  words :  "  Shut  up."  Yet  in  spite 
of  this  mental  friction  my  health  and  my  nerves 
steadily  improved.  But  I  still  thought  I  was  insane, 
and  was  nearly  floored  one  day  when  one  of  the 
doctors  told  me  I  was  to  be  discharged. 

"  Why,"  I  gasped,  "  am  I  all  right — all  right  in 
my  head?  " 

"  Nothing  wrong  with  you,  but  nerves,"  he  said. 
"  You're  the  sanest  man  we  ever  had  here." 

"  But  what  ailed  me  ?  "  I  asked,  remembering  the 
conviction  of  the  years. 

"  The  letter  W,  and  what  follows  it." 
"Women?" 

"  Women  never  bother  you.     You're  too  ugly." 
"Work?" 

"  Work  never  hurt  anyone.  Whiskey  and  worry 
are  your  trouble.  Cut  them  both  out,  for  one  will 
produce  the  other." 

And  so  I  was  sane,  and  the  haunting  horror  of 
the  long  years  was  gone  from  me.  I  needed  the 
rest  of  the  day  and  a  night  of  sleep  to  assimilate 
the  gladness  of  it.  My  burden  was  lifted  and  the 
whole  world  was  changed.  I  had  never  been  insane, 
and  never  would  be;  for  I  had  passed  the  acid  test 
of  sanity;  I  had  endured  for  two  weeks  the  society 
of  madmen,  had  suffered  in  concentrated  form  every 
nuisance  and  annoyance  that  had  broken  me  down, 
and  had  steadily  recovered  my  health  and  steadied 
my  nerves  against  the  down  pull!    Why?     Because 


68   MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

I  had  received  bodily  care  and  sympathy — almost  un- 
known to  me  in  the  outer  world — and  nothing  to 
drink.     I  resolved  to  continue  the  treatment. 

But  my  next  experience  in  the  outer  world  told  me 
that  sympathy  could  not  be  had  for  the  mere  need 
of  it.  My  first  act  on  leaving  the  hospital  gate  was 
to  enter  the  nearest  saloon  and  buy  a  drink  of  good 
whiskey,  which  to  the  pained  amazement  of  the  bar- 
tender I  poured  into  the  cuspidor. 

"  Where'd   you   come   from.''"   he    asked. 

"  The  psychopathic  ward,"  I  answered. 

"  How'd  you  get  out?" 

"  The  gate." 

"  Well,"  he  said,  as  he  took  the  bottle  out  of  my 
reach  and  wiped  the  bar,  "  you  can  always  go  back." 

The  drink  habit  has  had  several  explanations. 
Jack  London  lays  it  to  availability  and  suggestion. 
He  is  but  partly  right.  It  has  been  called  a  strong 
man's  weakness  and  a  weak  man's  vice.  This  is  a 
contradiction  in  terms,  for  a  strong  man  cannot  be 
weak,  and  a  weak  man  cannot  be  vicious.  It  needs 
weakness  to  be  weak,  and  strength  to  be  vicious.  In 
my  judgment  it  is  a  sickness,  or  the  symptom  of  a 
sickness — in  my  own  case,  the  latter.  It  is  a  sickness 
as  contagious  to  temperamental  people  as  any  germ 
disease,  and  is  curable  by  the  same  general  treat- 
ment— medicine  and  hygiene. 


MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  HERO 

By  J.  O'NEILL 

This  appreciation  of  Morgan  Robertson  was  writ- 
ten by  an  artist  friend.  As  may  be  gained  by  reading 
between  the  lines  of  this  contribution,  Morgan  Robert- 
son found  the  author  a  ready  sympathizer  with  the 
psychic  beliefs  that  became  so  dominant  in  his  later 
years. 

"  T  TE  died  standing  up." 

■^  ■■■  Those  words  formed  part  of  the  message 
flashed  across  the  country  from  Atlantic  City  on 
March  24,  1915,  telling  of  the  death  of  one  of 
America's  heroes — Morgan  Robertson,  sailor,  clock- 
repairer,  diamond-setter,  sea-tale  writer,  and — hero. 

My  acquaintance  with  "  Morg,"  as  he  was  affec- 
tionately called  by  his  intimates,  dates  from  a  muggy 
afternoon  when  I  was  introduced  to  him  and  his 
eight-by-twelve  room  in  a  Twenty-fourth  Street 
studio  building,  New  York  City.  I  was  walking  up 
the  avenue  when  I  met  a  model  of  mine,  who  told 
me  she  was  on  her  way  to  his  studio,  and,  hearing  that 
I  had  never  met  him,  invited  me  to  accompany  her; 
I  assented,  for,  having  read  some  of  his  sea-tales 
with  great  enjoyment,  I  was  glad  to  have  the  oppor- 
tunity of  meeting  the  author. 

His  room  contained  a  bathtub  which  he  had  had 

raised  from  the  floor  high  enough  to  serve  the  purpose 

69 


70       MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  I'HE  MAN 

of  a  table,  into  which  it  was  converted  by  the  addition 
of  a  thick  drawing  board.  Hanging  from  the  edges 
of  this  board  was  drapery  of  some  kind — denim,  I 
think — which  hid  the  ugly  bathtub  from  the  gaze  of 
the  profane.  A  lounge-bed,  sadly  dented  in  the  middle 
where  the  springs  had  given  way  under  the  frequent 
impact  of  his  friends  who  used  it  to  sit  on,  a  small 
table  on  which  was  a  typewriter,  a  gas  range,  and 
two  chairs  occupied  the  remainder  of  the  floor  space, 
with  the  exception  of  a  strip  of  floor  about  two  feet 
wide,  forming  a  sort  of  runway  for  Morg  to  walk 
on  while  doing  his  thinking.  On  the  walls  were  a 
United  States  weather  chart,  showing  the  tides  and 
winds,  a  couple  of  drawings  made  to  illustrate  one 
of  his  sea-tales,  a  hanging  cupboard,  and  a  shocking 
caricature  of  Morg  himself  dashed  ofi'  in  a  spirit 
of  fun  by  one  of  his  newspaper  friends,  and  labeled 
(libeled  is  the  correct  term)  "  Reversion  to  Type." 
Morg,  who  fortunately  had  a  keen  sense  of  the 
ludicrous,  took  special  pride  in  drawing  his  visitors' 
attention — and  admiration — to  this  caricature. 

After  the  usual  introductions  were  over,  the  visitor 
was  put  completely  at  his  ease,  for  Robertson  had 
the  traditional  hospitality  of  the  sailor,  a  hospitality 
that  was  his  own  undoing,  for  he  was  taken  advantage 
of  at  every  opportunity. 

On  the  occasion  of  my  first  visit  I  noticed  a  savory 
smell  coming  from  the  direction  of  the  gas  range. 
Morg,  following  my  look  of  inquiry,  informed 
me  his  supper  was  being  cooked,  and  invited  me  to 
stay  and  take  "  pot  luck  "  with  him,  remarking  that 


MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  HERO  71 

my  friend,  the  model,  did  not  need  an  invitation,  for 
if  his  guess  was  correct,  she  had  come  with  the  in- 
tention of  sharing  his  supper,  an  accusation  she 
cheerfully  and  laughingly  admitted.  Being  a  Bo- 
hemian, and  also  curious  to  know  what  kind  of  supper 
cooked  by  a  mere  man  attracted  our  friend  the  model, 
I  accepted,  and  inquired  what  it  consisted  of. 
Morg  said  he  had  about  ten  pounds  of  white  beans 
(haricot  blanc),  boiling  merrily  in  the  big  pot  on 
the  range,  on  the  top  of  them  being  a  chunk  of 
fat  pork  to  give  the  necessary  flavor,  while  in  the 
oven  were  some  "  Murphies  "  baking.  Looking  at 
his  watch,  he  said  it  was  almost  supper  time,  and 
commenced  to  brew  a  big  pot  of  black  coffee, 
quantities  of  which,  so  I  discovered  later,  formed 
the  basis  of  the  inspiration  of  his  sea  stories,  and 
which  was  to  lay  the  foundation  of  stomach  and 
nervous  troubles  from  which  he  suffered  in  his  later 
years.  While  the  coffee  was  cooking,  he  "  laid  the 
table  "  (which  was  a  small  table  used  by  dressmakers) 
with  cups  and  saucers,  etc.,  which  he  fished  out  of 
the  recesses  of  the  cupboard  hanging  above  his  bath- 
tub table,  and  then  he  helped  us  to  as  savory  and 
appetizing  a  meal  as  ever  Bohemian  ate. 

Morgan  Robertson  not  only  could  cook  up  yams, 
he  could  also  cook  beans — believe  me.  I  found  out 
later  that  Morg's  beans  were  known  from  one 
end  of  New  York's  Bohemia  to  the  other. 

While  we  were  doing  justice  to  his  supper, 
Morg  told  me  that  when  my  model  friend  needed 
a  real  meal,  she  always  dropped  in  to  see  him  about 


72      MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  IMAN 

supper  time  so  as  to  get  some  of  his  celebrated  beans 
"  under  her  belt,"  and  in  consequence  he  had  given 
her  a  nickname,  "  Beans,"  a  name  she  was  always 
known  to  us  ever  after.  I  did  not  know  until  a  couple 
of  days  later  that  poor  old  Morg  was  going 
through  one  of  his  periods  of  "  hard  times."  I  cer- 
tainly would  not  have  guessed  it  from  his  lavish 
generosity  of  the  little  he  had — but  that  was  Morgan 
Robertson. 

As  I  passed  near  his  place  every  morning  on  my 
way  to  my  studio,  which  was  but  a  few  blocks  away, 
I  was  a  frequent  caller.  Having  studied  and  worked 
along  lines  that  Morg  had  perhaps  touched  but 
lightly — if  at  all — we  were  strongly  attracted  to  each 
other;  also,  I  had  tasted  of  the  bitterness  of  exist- 
ence with  the  same  disappointments  due  to  the  short- 
comings of  myself  and  our  friends  the  magazine 
editors ;  I  knew  what  it  was  to  seek  in  my  pocket 
for  the  non-existent  nickel,  and  to  wonder  where 
the  next  meal  was  coming  from,  when  a  dollar  bill 
looked  as  big  as  the  map  of  Europe,  and  "  ten 
dollars  "  sounded  like  a  fairy  tale ;  I  knew  what  it 
meant  to  pull  my  belt  in  another  notch  so  that  the 
muscles  surrounding  the  hiatus  in  the  region  of  my 
solar  plexus  could  have  something  on  which  to  get  a 
purchase — hence,  I  belonged!  Morg  and  I  had 
little  need  of  an  introduction. 

At  the  time  I  speak  of  he  was  harassed  by  the 
want  of  money,  also  by  the  fact  that  his  brain  was 
fagged  and  weary  from  the  continued  strain  of  crea- 
tive work. 


MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  HERO  73 

His  method  of  work  led  to  curious  results.  He 
would  lie  on  his  lounge-bed,  sometimes  for  hours  at 
a  time,  in  a  semi-sleeping  state.  His  ideas  would 
gradually  marshal  themselves  into  a  coherent,  con- 
secutive narrative  up  to  a  certain  point,  and  then — 
they  would  stop — whether  he  liked  or  not,  and  that 
stopping,  sometimes  in  the  middle  of  an  exciting  situa- 
tion, was  the  plague  of  his  literary  existence.  He 
would  then  sit  at  his  typewriter  and  pound  out  his 
story  in  a  steady  stream  of  words  until  he  had  finished 
what  he  had  gotten  in  his  somnolent  state.  Then 
he  would  be  obliged  to  wait  for  the  rest  of  the  narra- 
tive, which  sometimes  would  not  come  for  days, 
sometimes  not  for  weeks !  In  the  meantime  Morg 
would  be  worried  sick  thinking  of  his  debts,  a  frame 
of  mind  hardly  conducive  to  turning  out  good  creative 
work,  but  which  was,  unfortunately,  the  condition 
he  usually  had  to  work  under.  We  little  realize  what 
the  work  of  a  creative  artist  costs  its  author. 

This  problem  of  the  stopping  short  of  his  in- 
spiration was  the  source  of  many  arguments  between 
us.  He  had  read  extensively  on  psychology,  and  had 
worked  out  a  solution  of  the  matter  for  himself 
which  seemed  to  him  to  be  the  true  solution.  It  was 
this : 

Years  ago,  when  he  first  took  up  literary  work,  he 
had  come  in  touch  with  a  young  lady  who  had  the  am- 
bition— but  not  the  "  stickativeness  " — to  be  a  great 
writer,  and  having  a  great  admiration  for  her  pro- 
ficiency in  the  use  of  flowing  language,  got  (to  use 
his  own  words)  en  rapport  with  her  "  mind-state  " 


74.       MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  AIAN 

and  thought  waves,  and,  himself  supplying  the  dog- 
gedness  and  stickativeness  which  she  lacked,  the  com- 
bination made  Morgan  Robertson  the  writer.  While 
my  opinion  may  not  be  of  great  value,  I  am  con- 
vinced that  he  was  a  very  sensitive  psychic,  and  the 
semi-comatose  condition  of  his  strong  physical  body 
was  necessary  for  the  psychic  part  of  him  to  mani- 
fest; the  alternative  being,  that  he  was  used  (as  a 
medium)  by  a  discamate  man  functioning  on  what 
the  mystics  of  the  Middle  Ages  and  also  the  modem 
Theosophists  call  the  "  Astral  Plane  " — the  next 
world  above  us,  or  the  "  spirit  summer-land  "  of  the 
spirituahsts ;  that  this  discamate  man  was — or  is — 
a  writer,  and  used  Robertson  as  a  channel  for  his 
literary  talents  and  output  on  the  physical  plane. 

This  latter  solution  is  not  so  far-fetched  or  im- 
probable as  the  man  in  the  street  may  imagine,  for 
many  writers  of  note  more  than  hint  at  the  prob- 
ability of  that  same  method  being  used  in  their  own 
cases.  When  we  are  thinking  along  a  definite  line 
of  thought,  a  totally  foreign  thought  will  insert  itself 
into  our  consciousness,  a  thought  that  has  absolutely 
nothing  in  common  with  our  previous  chain  of  think- 
ing, and  which,  so  far  as  we  can  see,  has  not  been 
the  result  of  or  stimulated  by  that  previous  thinking. 
Where  has  that  new  thought  come  from?  Psychol- 
ogists affirm  it  has  seeped  up  from  our  sub-conscious- 
ness, which  Is  a  possibility,  but  the  question  still 
remains,  why  should  that  particular  thought  come  at 
that  particular  time,  unasked,  and  when  the  waking 
consciousness  was  busily  engaged  along  a  totally  dif- 


MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  HERO  75 

ferent  line  of  thought?  We  say,  "  a  thought  came  to 
us,"  and,  in  saying  it,  we  are  unaware  that  uncon- 
sciously we  have  uttered  a  truth,  for  we  are  con- 
stantly affected  and  influenced  by  the  thoughts  of  all 
our  fellow-humans,  whether  they  be  on  this  plane  or 
other  planes  of  life.  And  it  is  not  an  unreasonable 
idea  to  suppose  that  a  young  man,  full  of  ambition, 
cut  off  in  the  middle  of  his  career  (by  what  we  call 
"death"),  carries  with  him  into  the  next  plane  of 
existence  the  same  ambition,  the  same  longing  to  give 
forth  his  message,  but  which  he  now  is  unable  to 
give  on  the  physical  plane  because  he  has  been  di- 
vested of  his  physical  body.  What  is  more  likely  than 
that  such  a  one  would  use  a  physical  man  of  sensitive 
psychic  makeup  as  a  channel  to  give  that  message 
to  physical  plane  inhabitants?  Mystics  of  all  ages 
have  asserted  that  not  only  is  it  possible,  but  that  it 
is  of  more  frequent  occurrence  than  the  average  man 
wots  of. 

The  writing  of  one  of  his  stories  is  a  case  in  point. 
About  ten  or  eleven  years  ago,  he  wrote  the  tale  called 
"  Fifty  Fathoms  Down,"  which  told  of  a  United 
States  submarine  torpedo-boat  being  run  down  at 
night,  shipping  a  lot  of  water  which  put  the  ma- 
chinery out  of  business,  with  the  result  that  the  boat 
sinks  to  the  depth  indicated  by  the  title.  The  lieu- 
tenant in  command  clearly  sees  that  it  is  a  matter 
of  but  a  short  time  before  suffocation  will  put  an  end 
to  their  activities,  and  finally  to  their  lives,  and 
decides  to  eject  the  crew  one  after  another  through 
the  torpedo  tubes,  he  himself,  after  ejecting  the  last 


76   MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

man,  remaining  to  wrestle  with  the  problem  of  re- 
membering the  chemical  formula  of  a  drying  agent 
for  gases — "  something  he  had  studied  years  ago  at 
school  " — and  also  other  chemical  combinations  which 
would  enable  him  to  dry  out  his  motors  and  so  raise 
the  boat  to  the  surface. 

He  [Robertson]  had  gotten  this  tale  (along  with 
the  chemical  formulae)  en  bloc  during  one  of  his  semi- 
sleeping  states,  and  as  he  knew  as  much  about  chem- 
istry as  he  did  of  the  man  in  the  moon  (according  to 
his  own  statement),  he  took  his  manuscript  to  a  pro- 
fessor of  chemistry  at  Columbia  College  for  verifica- 
tion. Although  he  had  never  seen  it  worked  out  just 
that  way,  the  professor  opined  the  formulae  were 
0.  K.,  which  vastly  amused  Morg,  who  was  tickled 
at  the  idea  of  him,  a  sailor,  presenting  new  chemical 
formulae  to  a  professor  of  chemistry. 

Whatever  the  solution — Robertson  at  this  par- 
ticular time  was  in  a  ferment  of  distress.  He  had 
a  couple  of  tales  started  but  which  would  not  con- 
tinue; he  needed  the  money  badly  which  those  tales, 
when  completed,  would  bring;  add  to  his  troubles 
a  gay  young  spark  who  occupied  the  next  room  and 
who  persisted  in  coming  home  all  "  lit  up  " — generally 
accompanied  by  a  boisterous  companion  who  helped 
to  make  things  lively — just  at  the  time  when  poor 
old  Morg  was  trying  to  connect  the  scattered  threads 
of  his  tales,  and  one  has  a  faint  picture  of  what  he 
went  through  for  about  six  weeks  of  nerve-racking 
torment. 

Desperate  and  not  knowing  which  way  k>  turn, 


MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  HERO  77 

he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  hypnotism  would  per- 
haps help  him.  Full  of  this  notion  he  interviewed 
a  prominent  and  well-known  physician  who  used 
hypnotism  in  his  practice.  He  frankly  told  the  M.  D. 
of  his  lack  of  funds  and  also  of  his  other  troubles, 
saying  that  he  thought  if  he  was  put  into  the 
hypnotic  state  and  while  therein  given  the  suggestion 
to  invent  plots  for  his  stories,  he  would  be  in  the 
position  of  being  able  to  get  to  work  with  renewed 
vigor.  The  physician,  who  is  a  fine  type  of  man — 
physically,  mentally,  and  morally — consented  to  do 
what  he  could  to  help  him,  and,  after  a  couple  of 
failures,  succeeded  in  putting  Morg  into  the  hypnotic 
state  and  gave  him  the  asked-for  "  suggestion,"  viz. : 
to  invent.  And  now  a  curious  thing  made  itself 
evident.  Robertson  began  "  inventing  " — not  along 
the  line  of  literary  but  of  scientific  work. 

One  morning,  shortly  after  his  experience  with 
hypnotism,  I  called  and  discovered  him  hard  at  work 
on  his  bathtub  table  making  an  elaborate  mechanical 
drawing  that  would  have  done  credit  to  an  engineer- 
ing draughtsman,  and,  with  but  a  nodding  acquaint- 
ance with  geometry,  was  calmly  tackling  a  problem  in 
optics !  He  was  inventing  his  periscope  for  use  on 
submarines. 

The  periscope  lens  in  general  use  on  submarines 
(so  I  am  given  to  understand)  is  a  segment  of  glass 
of  60  degrees,  which,  placed  on  top  of  the  tube 
rising  perpendicularly  out  of  the  submarine,  is  the 
*' eye "  by  which  (when  the  submarine  is  partly 
submerged)  the  craft  is  steered.    As  60  degrees  will 


78   MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

take  in  only  a  certain  part  of  the  scene  it  points 
at,  the  lens  must  be  turned  to  the  various  points  of 
the  compass  to  "  see  "  the  whole  horizon.  Robertson 
was  engaged  in  inventing  a  periscope  lens  which 
would  take  in  the  whole  circular  field  of  360  degrees 
at  once,  a  problem  others  had  tackled  and  given  up 
in  despair. 

Amazed  at  the  cleverness  he  displayed  in  handling 
strange  tools  like  an  expert,  I  examined  the  drawing 
with  a  critical  eye,  Morg  meanwhile  explaining  the 
meaning  of  the  maze  of  intricate  lines.  He  told 
me  he  had  run  against  a  snag.  The  inside  curve  of 
his  lens  did  not  give  the  correct  shape  necessary  to 
reflect  the  image  properly ;  he  said  that  vaguely  hum- 
ming in  his  cranium  was  something  that  sounded  like 
"  kartsun  curve,"  and  asked  me  if  I  recognized  it.  He 
had  looked  up  in  his  encyclopedia  all  the  words  he 
could  think  of  that  sounded  anything  like  "  kartsun," 
but  couldn't  hit  it;  I  was  at  a  loss  to  know  what  he 
was  trying  to  get  at,  for  while  the  name  had  a  some- 
what familiar  sound  I  couldn't  place  it,  so  left  him 
cudgeling  his  brains  over  the  problem,  for  I  had 
pressing  problems  of  my  own  which  demanded  my  at- 
tention. However,  desiring  to  help  him,  I  devoted 
'part  of  that  evening  to  looking  through  a  big  dic- 
tionary, and  after  exhausting  the  "  K's  "  turned  to 
the  "  C's,"  with  the  result  that  I  found  the  "  Carte- 
sian curve "  drawn  and  explained,  and  which  is  a 
curve  plotted  from  three  centers  and  named  after  the 
French  philosopher  Descartes.  As  I  lived  some  miles 
away  from  Robertson  I  had  to  wait  until  the  mom- 


MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  HERO  79 

ing  to  acquaint  him  with  my  discovery.  He  made 
a  new  drawing  incorporating  this  curve,  and  when  he 
had  finished  it  was  satisfied  that,  theoretically  at  all 
events,  he  had  invented  that  which  other  inventors 
had  failed  on,  a  perfect  periscope  lens,  and  laugh- 
ingly remarked  that  in  six  months  he  would  be  cutting 
coupons  (his  royalties),  with  the  prospect  of  being 
a  bloated  millionaire  and  be  in  a  position  to  help 
all  his  "  down-and-out "  friends,  myself  included. 
That  was  the  sailor  in  him  talking,  money  being  of 
no  value  to  him  except  to  spend  on  his  friends. 

He  got  in  touch  with  the  Submarine  Boat 

Company,  who  requested  him  to  communicate  imme- 
diately with  their  naval  expert,  Lieutenant  ,  of 

the  United  States  Navy.  This  he  did,  to  the  joy 
of  the  aforesaid  lieutenant,  who  said  he  had  been 
working  on  that  same  problem  for  three  years  without 
success  and  had  given  it  up  in  despair  in (nam- 
ing a  certain  month).  Morg's  curiosity  was  aroused, 
and  inquiring  the  exact  day  the  lieutenant  had 
throA\'n  out  his  chvmks  of  glass  models  and  had 
given  the  game  up,  found  that  the  following  day  was 
the  day  he  [Robertson]  had  had  the  impulse  to  take 
up  the  problem;  which  to  Morgan's  way  of  thinking 
was  another  argument  in  favor  of  his  pet  theory  re- 
garding his  getting  another's  "  mind-state."  I 
pointed  out  to  him  that  he  should  have  at  the  same 
time  gotten  the  lieutenant's  mind-state  of  despair  and 
relinquishment  of  the  idea,  but  he  couldn't — or 
wouldn't — see  it  that  way. 

The  lieutenant's   report   to   the   Submarine  Boat 


80   MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

Company  was  so  favorable  they  advanced  Robertson 
$50.00  (if  my  memory  serves  me)  a  week  to  go  ahead 
and  make  a  working  model  of  his  lens.  He  put  the 
problem  of  grinding  the  glass  up  to  one  of  our  large 
manufacturers  of  lenses,  but  when  they  saw  what  was 
required  of  them,  they  balked  and  said  they  could 
not  do  it ;  that  was  another  setback.  Robertson, 
however,  was  not  the  man  to  give  up,  and  calling  on 
him  some  days  later,  I  found  he  had  built  a  rough 
structure  from  the  top  of  which  hung  an  arm  which 
carried  a  weight  made  of  some  material  necessary  to 
grind  the  chunk  of  glass  underneath  into  the  sem- 
blance of  his  future  lens;  he  had  worked  out  the 
problem  of  this  arm  swinging  so  that  it  would  de- 
scribe the  required  Cartesian  curve.  When  he  had 
his  glass  almost  ground  and  ready  for  polishing, 
through  some  unforeseen  cause  (possibly  a  flaw  in 
the  glass  or  a  sudden  change  of  temperature),  the 
thing  cracked,  and  the  result  of  his  weeks  of  labor 
was  ruined.  Nothing  daunted,  he  got  another  chunk 
of  glass  and  started  all  over  again.  With  this  second 
one  he  was  more  fortunate  and,  while  not  perfectly 
polished,  on  being  mounted  on  the  end  of  a  mailing 
tube  it  gave  a  fairly  clear  picture  of  the  surround- 
ing landscape,  and  showed  that  the  making  of  a  better 
and  perfect  periscope  lens  was  but  a  matter  of  a 
more  solid  apparatus  than  Morg  had  made  to  grind 
his  chunk  of  glass.  The  lens  was  to  all  intents 
and  purposes  an  accomplished  fact.  Robertson  was, 
naturally,  delighted  with  his  success,  and  felt  that  he 
saw  at  last  the  end  of  his  monetary  troubles,  but 


MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  HERO  81 

Fate,  in  the  shape  of  the  United  States  Patent 
Office,  stepped  in  and  prevented  his  dream  being 
realized. 

As  I  understood  the  matter  from  him,  a  French- 
man had  written,  in  a  French  magazine,  an  article 
on  the  periscope  lens  of  the  future,  pointing  out  the 
lines  of  construction  the  inventor  would  have  to 
follow  in  order  to  make  a  perfect  panoramic  periscope 
lens.  Strangely  enough,  although  Robertson  had  not 
even  heard  of  this  particular  article  or  magazine 
(which  had  appeared  some  years  before),  his  lens 
followed  the  lines  of  the  theoretical  one  of  the  French- 
man, and  the  Patent  Office  held  that  no  patent  could 
be  taken  out  for  Robertson's  invention.  Although  the 
setback  was  a  serious  one,  for  Robertson  was  fully 
convinced  his  literary  work  of  story-spinning  was 
over  forever,  his  heroic  quality  of  soul  was  equal 
to  the  strain.  He  put  his  wasted  time,  energy,  and 
work  on  the  periscope  problem  behind  him  as  an  un- 
fortunate incident,  and  again  set  to  work  evolving 
sea-tales. 

Mixed  up  in  his  thought-currents  were  a  lot  of 
suggestions  that  came  from — he  knew  not  where; 
and  questions  regarding  chemical  rays,  heat  rays, 
actinic  rays,  and  such  like  were  hurled  at  me  with  a 
view  to  finding  out  what  I  knew  about  them.  As 
my  professional  work  had  carried  me  into  investiga- 
tions regarding  colored  light,  some  of  the  questions 
I  could  answer  and  give  him  more  or  less  definite 
information  on,  but  most  of  them  were  of  too 
abstruse  a  nature  for  me  to  help  him.     Gradually, 


82   MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

form  began  to  come  out  of  the  chaos  of  suggestions, 
and  then  I  discovered  he  was  at  work  inventing  an 
invisible  searchlight.  When  he  told  me  what  he  was 
doing,  I  confess  I  scooted  the  proposition  as  being 
paradoxical,  but  when  he  got  through  explaining  his 
idea  I  realized  that  he  was  on  the  threshold  of  an 
invention  that  would  astound  the  world  and  be  a 
powerful  factor  in  banishing  war  from  off  the  face 
of  the  globe.  It  was  one  of  those  simple  things  that 
strike  us  as  being  remarkable  no  one  had  thought  of 
it  before,  and,  although  simple,  it  was  an  idea  that 
would  be  incalculable  in  its  far-reaching  effects. 

He  worked  out  the  idea  theoretically  in  a  drawing, 
combining  it  with  his  periscope,  and  it  looked  most 
promising  until  he  butted  against  the  usual  snag, 
which,  in  this  case,  was  the  problem  of  heat  in  the 
searchlight.  His  money  problems  were  such  he  had 
to  lay  his  searchlight  idea  aside,  and  gradually  lost 
interest  in  the  matter,  for  apparently  the  obstacle 
could  not  be  surmounted,  handicapped  as  he  was  by 
lack  of  technical  knowledge.  Some  years  after  (last 
year,  to  be  precise),  I  told  him  I  thought  I  had 
found  the  solution  to  that  particular  problem,  and  he 
seemed  to  think  that  it  would  work  out  successfully, 
but  at  that  time  his  health  had  broken  down  and 
he  was  headed  for  a  hospital.  Anyway,  his  disap- 
pointment over  the  periscope  affair  had  left  a  deeper 
wound  than  he  had  been  willing  to  admit,  and  he 
didn't  care  to  run  the  risks  of  again  going  through 
the  same  experience. 

Although  Robertson  respected  and  admired  certain 


MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  HERO  83 

of  the  magazine  editors,  there  was  a  class  of  editor 
who — to  use  a  colloquialism — "  got  his  goat,"  and 
roused  his  ire  to  the  nth.  degree.  One  day  last  year 
he  came  to  my  studio  and  told  me  he  had  just  had 
a  peculiar  experience.  It  seemed  he  had  left  the 
manuscript  of  a  story  with  a  certain  metropolitan 
magazine  (which  shall  be  nameless  here),  and  on  this 
particular  day  he  had  called  to  see  the  editor  regard- 
ing it.  The  editor,  who  was  a  young  callow  individual 
of  twenty-odd  years,  gave  the  manuscript — which  he 
said  he  couldn't  accept — to  Robertson  with  the  re- 
mark that  as  he  [Robertson]  was  evidently  trying 
to  make  sea-tale  writing  his  line  of  work  he  would 
give  him  a  tip.  Pointing  to  a  book  standing  on  his 
desk,  the  young  editor  said  he  should  read  it  carefully 
and  endeavor  to  model  his  st^^le  on  that  man's  story. 
Morg  looked  at  the  book  indicated  and  read  the 
title ;  it  was  "  Sinful  Peck,"  by  Morgan  Robertson ! ! ! 
I  interrupted  Morg's  recital  of  this  interview  to  ex- 
claim :  "  Oh !  what  a  chance !  What  did  you  say  ?  " 
He  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  wiped  his  lips 
with  his  finger,  tried  to  smile  his  old  humorous, 
quizzical  smile — but  which  was  a  failure  for  the  ex- 
perience had  cut  him  to  the  quick — "  I  just  thanked 
him  and  walked  out,"  was  all  he  said.  He  felt  that 
as  such  an  ignoramus  as  this  pert  young  chap  was 
in  the  place  of  power,  and  who  evidently  had  not 
even  noticed  his  name  at  the  top  of  his  manuscript, 
it  was  wasting  good  energy  to  bandy  words  with  him, 
so  he  "  just  thanked  him  and  walked  out." 

Talking,   as   we   often   did,    over  the   "  magazine 


84.      MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

game,"  as  we  called  it,  Robertson  said  that  with  all 
his  experience  he  knew  no  more  about  what  the 
editors  wanted  than  he  did  when  he  first  entered  the 
literary  field,  and  instanced  a  story  he  had  written 
a  couple  of  years  ago  on  order  for  a  magazine  who 
wanted  a  "  strong "  story.  He  wrote  the  story, 
sent  it  to  the  editor,  who  returned  it  as  being  unac- 
ceptable. Then  followed  the  weary  work  of  trying 
to  sell  it  to  another  magazine.  It  was  turned  down 
by  every  editor  he  submitted  it  to  except  one,  who 
was  the  editor  of  the  most  conservative  magazine  in 
the  field,  and  who,  in  Robertson's  mind,  would  be  the 
most  unlikely  man  to  accept  it.  Without  the  faintest 
hope  in  his  heart  he  sent  the  manuscript  to  this  par- 
ticular man,  and  nearly  fell  in  a  faint  next  day  to 
hear  that  not  only  was  his  story  accepted,  but  that 
one  of  the  biggest  illustrators  in  the  country  was  to 
be  commissioned  to  make  the  pictures  for  it.  When 
it  was  published  the  story  made  a  tremendous  sensa- 
tion in  magazine  circles,  and  heartened  Robertson  to 
write  a  story  he  long  had  desired,  but  which  he  had 
hitherto  been  afraid  to,  fearing  it  would  be  too  strong 
for  salable  purposes.  He  outlined  the  synopsis  of 
his  proposed  tale  to  the  magazine  that  had  accepted 
the  one  just  mentioned,  and  the  editor  commissioned 
him  to  go  ahead  and  write  it.  He  took  as  the  basis 
of  his  tale  the  well-known  case  of  the  Marie  Celeste, 
a  ship  that  had  sailed  for  a  port  which  it  never  ar- 
rived at,  the  only  clew  to  its  fate  being  one  of  its 
boats  found  drifting  in  the  open  sea  and  containing 
only  a  chronometer  and  an  oar.     The  solving  of  this 


MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  HERO  85 

mystery  of  the  sea  had  fascinated  him  for  a  long 
time,  so  he  hailed  with  delight  this  commission  as 
being  just  the  chance  he  wanted. 

I  happened  to  visit  him  as  he  was  completing  the 
manuscript,  and  read  the  story  while  he  sat  and 
smoked  the  pipe  of  satisfaction,  which  he  well  might 
do,  for  it  was  one  of  the  most  powerful  stories  I  had 
ever  read.  Expressing  a  desire  to  have  the  oppor- 
tunity of  illustrating  the  story,  I  was  told  that  he 
had  absolutely  no  say  in  the  matter  but  would  recom- 
mend me  to  the  editor  with  a  view  to  getting  me  the 
job.  A  couple  of  days  later  he  told  me  that  his 
story  had  been  refused  as  being  too  powerful!  As 
in  the  other  case,  he  took  it  the  rounds  of  the  maga- 
zines. One  editor  refused  it  saying  that  it  was  too 
weird  and  horrible ;  "  Why,"  said  he,  "  do  you  know 
I  couldn't  go  to  bed  because  I  had  to  finish  that 
blamed  story  and  see  how  it  ended !  "  "  Well,  I  con- 
sider it  a  compliment  that  a  hardened  old  sinner  of 
an  editor  like  you  was  interested  to  the  extent  that 
you  say,"  was  Robertson's  retort.  "  That's  all  very 
well,"  said  the  editor,  "  but  my  readers  would  not 
stand  for  anything  like  that."  Finally  it  was  landed 
on  a  magazine  whose  owner  was  interested  in  an 
evening  paper,  which  not  only  reprinted  the  story 
but  printed  almost  a  column  of  enthusiastic  comment 
by  one  of  the  highest  paid  editors  in  New  York, 
who  flattered  Robertson  to  the  extent  of  saying  that 
E.  A.  Poe  had  written  nothing  to  equal  it. 

So,  year  in  and  year  out,  Robertson  worked, 
struggling  with  poverty  and  the  gradual  decline  of 


86   MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

his  physical  powers.  Blessed  with  a  magnificent  con- 
stitution and  strong  vitality  which  called  for  an 
outdoor  life,  he  sapped  it  by  his  sedentary  work  and 
mode  of  living ;  and  when  later  he  had  to  pay  the  price 
that  Nature  demands,  he  was  handicapped  by  ills  of 
various  kinds. 

During  an  attack  of  inflammatory  rheumatism  I 
introduced  to  him  a  friend  of  mine,  a  physician  (and 
one  of  the  salt  of  the  earth),  who  went  up  to  Mount 
Vernon  to  treat  him.  My  friend  found  Robertson 
propped  up  in  bed  with  his  typewriter  on  a  board 
resting  on  two  uprights  to  keep  the  weight  of  the 
machine  off  him,  trying  to  write  a  story  in  between 
the  twinges  of  pain  that  racked  him  from  head  to 
foot. 

Full  of  failings  (like  the  most  of  us),  yet  fuller 
still  of  heroic  qualities  was  Morg,  for,  as  he  often 
used  to  say,  he  had  had  the  training  of  a  sailor,  and, 
like  the  sailor,  he  had  the  traditional  attitude  of  the 
seaman,  which  was  to  keep  on  doing  the  best  he 
could  with  a  stiff  upper  lip,  depending  on  the  Great 
Pilot  that  in  the  end  all  would  be  well;  which  to 
him  was  the  true  heroic  attitude.  He  said,  in  an 
unsigned  article  published  in  a  popular  weekly,  "  I 
am  a  sailor  " ;  that  utterance  meant  more  than  the 
open-handed  generosity  of  the  seafaring  man ;  it 
meant  also  the  qualities  that  went  to  make  Morgan 
Robertson  a  hero.    Here's  to  you,  Moyg — HERO ! 


THE  ART  OF  MORGAN  ROBERTSON 

By  CHARLES  HANSON  TOWNE 

The  author  of  the  following  slcetch  of  Morgan 
Robertson  is  the  editor  of  McClure's,  and  a  magazine 
man  of  wide  experience. 

I  KNEW  Morgan  Robertson,  I  should  say,  over  a 
period  of  about  twelve  years.  When  I  was  at  The 
Smart  Set  he  used  to  bring  us  stories — stories  of 
power  and  distinction,  but  almost  always,  because  of 
our  limited  policy,  unsuited  to  our  needs.  Only  on 
two  or  three  occasions  was  it  possible  for  us  to  pur- 
chase his  manuscripts;  and  he  and  I  used  to  laugh 
and  say  that  it  was  easy  enough  for  an  editor  and 
a  contributor  to  remain  friends  so  long  as  the  former 
was  buying  the  latter's  offerings.  But  in  our  case 
I  like  to  think  that  Robertson  and  I  understood  each 
other,  and  so  could  continue  our  friendship,  even 
though  our  business  relations  were  not  always  as  we 
would  have  had  them. 

Looking  back  now,  I  begin  to  realize  that  Morgan 
Robertson  may  have  been  too  great  an  artist  to  know 
much  about  the  magazine  markets ;  and  it  makes  me 
happy  to  recall  that  on  several  occasions  when  we 
guided  him  to  the  proper  channels  for  the  sale  of 
his  work,  he  met  with  success,  and  came  back,  like 
a  boy,  and  told  us  of  his  achievement. 

87 


88   MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

He  was  a  man  not  meant  to  cope  with  life  in  a 
sounding  city.  He  should  have  lived  and  worked  in 
the  open  spaces  that  he  loved,  the  pages  of  his  manu- 
script touched  by  the  salt  of  the  sea,  or  lightly  blown 
by  the  wind.  I  never  could  reconcile  that  sailor  gait 
of  his  with  Broadway  or  the  corridors  of  Fifth  Ave- 
nue hotels.  One  night  I  suddenly  encountered  him 
in  the  lobby  of  the  Knickerbocker.  The  place  was 
thronged,  and  as  we  came  close  to  each  other  in  the 
crowd  I  heard  his  deep  voice  boom:  "  Towne,  be  a 
pickpocket,  a  murderer,  a  pirate — but  don't  you  ever 
trust  to  mere  writing  for  your  living !  "  And  he  was 
gone.  Not  another  word — ^just  that,  so  amazingly 
characteristic  of  the  man.  He  had  evidently  been 
holding  the  thought,  alone  in  that  lobby  with  so 
many  fashionably  dressed  people  around  him,  and 
seeing  someone  he  knew,  he  hurled  out  just  what  was 
on  his  mind.  I  was  the  convenient  instrument  for 
his  thought's  release;  and  Robertson,  the  man  of 
monosyllables,  knew,  I  believe,  that  I  would  under- 
stand his  hyperbole,  yet  grasp  the  underlying  truth 
of  his  words. 

He  was  pessimistic.  He  had  cause  to  be.  He  could 
write  of  one  big  phase  of  life — a  phase  through  which 
he  had  passed  with  many  adventures,  and  the  cold- 
ness with  which  his  transcriptions  were  received  at 
first  amused,  then  appalled,  and  finally  hardened  him. 
He  wanted  recognition — who  does  not? — and  his  fail- 
ure to  gain  what  he  knew  was  his  due  embittered 
him. 

He  dramatized  the  submarine ;  he  made  the  torpedo- 


THE  ART  OF  MORGAN  ROBERTSON  89 

boat  literally  come  ashore  for  us  stay-at-homes.  He 
put  the  miracle  of  wireless  into  his  narratives  in  such 
a  way  that  a  thrill  went  up  your  spine  as  you  read. 
The  terrors,  not  only  of  the  sea,  but  of  that  world 
under  the  sea,  he  got  on  paper  with  all  the  power 
and  force  of  a  great  writer.  He  did  not  like  calm 
and  quiet,  and  he  could  not  get  them  into  his  yarns. 
Man  of  action,  hero  and  participant  in  many  brave 
adventures,  he  loved  to  record  action  and  tumult ;  and 
he  had  the  gift  to  make  another  see  what  he  had 
seen. 

I  have  just  been  re-reading  Clark  Russell's  "  The 
Frozen  Pirate."  Admirable  as  that  lonely  story  is, 
cold  as  the  ice-bound  sea  it  tells  of,  I  cannot  think 
it  as  great  as  any  of  Robertson's  records  of  the  deep. 
To  me,  at  least,  the  modernity  of  our  American  puts 
him  in  a  place  of  his  own.  That  was  the  big  advan- 
tage, of  course,  that  he  had  over  Russell,  with  whom 
his  name  will,  through  necessity,  always  be  linked. 
He  saw  in  every  invention,  in  every  thrilling  bit  of 
iron  and  steel,  the  material  for  big  plots ;  and  Rus- 
sell, poet  that  he  was  in  many  a  singing  phrase,  never 
touched  Robertson  when  it  came  to  a  description  of 
burly  encounters,  or  a  passage  involving  some  sharp, 
incisive  scene  between  husky  men  of  the  sea.  And 
Robertson  had  humor — a  quaint,  wonderful  humor. 
He  had  the  power  of  making  you  remember  some  sud- 
den phrase  that  he  injected,  apparently  on  second 
thought,  to  save  a  highly  wrought  situation.  Take 
this,  from  that  rattling  tale  of  "  The  Torpedo."  The 
men  aboard  are  wondering  if  war  has  been  declared. 


90   MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

and  are  beside  themselves  to  know  if  they  ought  to 
fire.  The  suspense  is  as  great  as  in  a  Grand  Guignol 
thriller.     Then  says  Robertson : 

"And  so  was  reached  the  decision  that  sent  the  Argyll 
into  battle,  that  menaced  integrity  of  boundaries,  the  owner- 
ship of  isthmian  canals,  the  peace,  the  purpose,  and  the 
progress  of  the  world  for  a  hundred  years — not  because 
England's  dignity  was  in  danger,  but  because  Old  Man  Fin- 
negan  got  drunk." 


I  will  recall  Finnegan  along  with  Mulvaney;  and 
I  venture  to  say  that  every  devotee  of  Robertson  will 
do  the  same. 

Crammed  with  action,  crowded  with  laughter  and 
tears,  filled  with  the  peril  and  purpose  of  the  life  he 
loved,  I  think  Morgan  Robertson's  sea-tales  will  live 
when  most  others  are  lost.  He  wrote  nothing  of 
a  considerable  length — he  was  essentially  a  writer  in 
flashes.  But  who  forgets  forked  lightning  against 
a  black  sky? 

Mr.  Howells  has  said  that  the  reason  more  short 
stories  are  not  gathered  together  in  volume  form 
is  because  the  book  publishers  labor  under  a  delusion 
that  there  is  no  sale  for  them.  True;  but  short 
stories  as  brilliant,  as  swiftly  moving,  as  climactic 
as  Morgan  Robertson's  need  no  apology,  no  explana- 
tion for  their  appearance  between  covers.  They  speak 
bravely  for  themselves. 

One  personal  word,  and  I  am  done. 

When  I  went  to  McClure's  I  found  Morgan — and 
I  was  glad  to  see  his  face — sitting  at  a  desk  auto- 
graphing, autographing,  autographing.     Hundreds 


THE  ART  OF  MORGAN  ROBERTSON  91 

of  times  a  day  he  was  putting  his  name  on  the  title- 
page  of  the  uniform  edition  of  his  works.  I  used 
to  speak  to  him  every  day ;  but  I  was  as  busy  as  he 
in  those  first  few  months.  I  used  to  say  to  myself: 
"  Some  day  soon — to-morrow,  I  hope — I  will  have 
time  to  ask  him  to  lunch  with  me,  and  we  will  talk 
over  old  times  and  his  present  happiness."  I  re- 
marked how  well  he  looked,  yet  how  strangely  differ- 
ent. I  wanted  to  get  acquainted  with  him  all  over 
again,  for  some  years  had  elapsed  since  our  last  real 
meeting.  I  suppose  the  knowledge  that  I  could  ask 
him  any  time  caused  me  to  postpone  my  invitation. 
We  have  all  had  that  experience. 

Then  came  the  day  when,  a  bit  broken  and  tired, 
he  went,  unknown  to  me,  to  Atlantic  City  for  a  rest 
— his  last,  indeed.  I  never  saw  him  again ;  but  a  pic- 
ture of  him  as  a  pilot — the  best  he  ever  had  taken — 
is  on  my  desk. 

Oh,  that  untasted  luncheon  with  Morgan  Robert- 
son !  It  is  like  Tennyson's  "  never-lighted  fire."  I 
can  never  forgive  myself;  and  I  shall  remember  it 
when  many  another  that  I  shared  with  him  is  for- 
gotten. 


THE  MORGAN  ROBERTSON  I  KNEW 
By  ARTHUR  T.  VANCE 

The  author  of  the  folloxdng  article,  now  editor  of 
"  Pictorial  Review,"  has  the  distinction  of  having 
accepted  for  publication  more  of  Morgan  Robertson's 
stories  than  any  other  magazine  man  with  the  possible 
exception  of  George  Horace  Lorimer,  editor  of  the 
"  Saturday  Evening  Post."  The  acceptance  of  Ms 
first  story  began  a  friendship  that  lasted  for  many 
years. 

THEY  don't  make  them  any  more  like  Morgan 
Robertson.  They  have  lost  the  mold,  forgotten 
how,  or  something.  Probably  the  styles  have  changed. 
At  any  rate,  he  was  unique  among  present-day 
writers.  He  sensed  this  fact  himself.  He  always 
seemed  to  feel  that  he  didn't  quite  belong  to  the 
easy-writing,  high-priced  author  set  of  to-day,  who 
reap  financial  rewards  from  their  work  in  ways  un- 
thought  of  fifteen  years  ago.  Why,  when  Robertson 
began  to  write,  one  cent  a  word  was  real  good  pay. 
The  main  trouble  with  him  was  the  fact  that  he  never 
quite  got  reconciled  to  the  ten  and  twenty-cent-a-word 
regime.  He  didn't  think  he,  or  anyone  else,  as  far 
as  that  goes,  was  worth  such  fancy  prices.  This 
is  no  reflection  on  his  surviving  brothers  of  the  pen. 
They  are  most  of  them  good  fellows,  most  of  them 

92 


THE  MORGAN  ROBERTSON  I  KNEW   93 

do  good  work,  all  of  them  are  better  business  men 
than  he.  Morgan  never  had  a  commercial  sense.  He 
didn't  know  how  to  barter.  When  he  tried,  it  was 
almost  humorous,  so  he  generally  took  the  first  price 
offered,  and  considered  himself  lucky  at  that.  His 
best  stories — those  great  romances  of  the  sea  that 
will  live  and  be  remembered  for  years  to  come — he 
often  sold  for  a  song.  I  don't  think  he  ever  got  more 
than  $350  for  a  story,  and  that  was  an  event — an 
epoch,  and  he  thought  the  editor  must  have  been  easy. 
To-day  there  are  a  dozen  editors  who  would  pay, 
and  are  paying,  four  times  that  price  for  stories 
that  aren't  a  bit  better. 

Morgan  was  about  the  last  of  the  old-time  sea-story 
writers.  He  didn't  have  to  dream  his  salt-water  at- 
mosphere. He  had  lived  it.  He  knew  the  ropes. 
He  knew  every  trick  and  twist  of  a  sailing  ship. 
And  when  the  day  of  the  submarine  and  battleship 
came,  he  learned  their  innards,  too.  It  was  while 
grinding  out  a  story  of  a  submarine  that  he  came 
to  realize  the  limitations  of  the  periscope.  As  soon 
as  the  story  was  off  the  ways,  he  started  out  to  in- 
vent a  better  periscope,  and  he  did.  He  didn't 
know  much  about  optics  and  physics,  and  calculating 
the  curves  of  lenses  required  a  far  greater  knowledge 
of  mathematics  than  he  possessed,  so  he  started  out 
to  learn.  His  revised  periscope  needed  a  lens  ground 
on  a  parabolic  curve.  He  wrote  to  all  the  leading 
opticians  in  the  world  to  make  such  a  lens  for  him, 
but  found  out  there  weren't  any  machines  in  exist- 
ence to  grind  a  lens  on  a  parabolic  curve,  so  he  had 


94   MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

to  invent  one.  In  many  ways,  the  months  he  spent 
in  developing  these  inventions  were  the  happiest  in 
his  life.    He  quit  writing  entirely. 

And  then  when  he  had  perfected  the  periscope, 
and  got  it  on  a  working  basis,  the  submarine  company 
had  financial  troubles,  and  he  never  got  his  reward. 
He  went  back  to  writing,  of  course,  but  I  don't  think 
he  ever  had  quite  the  same  heart  in  it — this  despite 
the  fact  that  some  of  his  best  stories  came  after  that. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  first  Morgan  Robertson 
story  I  read.  It  appeared  in  Harper's,  I  think,  and 
was  called  "  The  Derelict  Neptune,"  the  first  of  a 
series  of  pseudo-scientific  yarns  of  the  sea  at  which  he 
was  such  a  wonder.  This  was  way  back  in  1897, 
as  I  remember  it,  when  I  was  the  editor  of  a  little 
magazine  up  the  state.  We  didn't  have  much  money 
to  buy  original  stuff,  so  we  used  to  ask  the  other 
magazines  to  let  us  reprint  their  best  stories,  with 
credit.  I  remember  I  got  permission  from  Harper's 
to  reprint  "  The  Derelict  Neptune."  I  wondered 
how  they  came  to  say  yes  so  readily,  and  found  out 
afterward  that  the  sea  captain  with  whom  Robertson 
had  first  gone  to  sea  still  lived  in  my  town  and 
Robertson  was  glad  to  have  the  story  printed  in  the 
local  magazine,  so  as  to  show  him  what  his  old  ship's 
boy  could  do.  A  year  or  so  afterward,  when  I  moved 
to  New  York  and  brought  the  magazine  with  me 
(it  didn't  take  up  very  much  room),  Robertson  looked 
me  up,  and  thus  began  a  warm  friendship  which 
lasted  throughout  all  these  years. 

Lord!     How   Robertson    did   hate   that   old    sea 


THE  MORGAN  ROBERTSON  I  KNEW  95 

captain !  He  said  he  starved  him,  treated  him  like 
a  dog,  and  stunted  his  growth.  He  was  the  prototype 
of  all  the  "  bucko  mates  "  and  "  hell-ship  captains  " 
that  Robertson  was  so  fond  of  depicting.  Yet — 
and  this  shows  the  big  heart  of  the  man — when  this 
sea  captain  died  a  few  years  back,  the  editor  of  my 
home-town  paper  asked  me  to  get  Robertson  to  write 
a  little  something  about  his  recollection  of  the  man. 
Robertson  was  busy  on  a  story  at  the  time,  and  he 
needed  money,  but  he  stopped  work  and  wrote  gratis 
a  two-thousand  word  appreciation  of  this  youthful 
enemy  of  his  that  was  a  model  of  Christian  charity — 
not  a  word  of  bitterness  in  it.  In  its  way,  it  was  one 
of  the  finest  bits  of  writing  he  ever  did. 

It  was  never  easy  for  Morgan  to  write.  I  have 
seen  him  sit  at  his  typewriter  by  the  hour  waiting  for 
the  right  word  to  come.  The  consequence  was  that 
when  the  manuscript  left  his  typewriter  it  was 
finished,  but  it  was  the  hardest  kind  of  mental  effort 
for  him.  This  necessitated  his  giving  up  trying  to 
write  home,  and  taking  a  little  studio  down  on 
Twenty-fourth  Street.  It  was  a  little  studio — a  gem 
in  its  way.  I  don't  think  it  was  as  big  as  the  pro- 
verbial hall  bedroom,  about  ten  feet  long  by  seven  feet 
wide.  In  this  tiny  room  he  had  everything  that  was 
necessary  to  housekeeping.  Let's  see  if  I  can  re- 
member it.  Back  of  the  door,  as  you  opened  it,  was 
a  gas  stove  and  a  clothes  closet.  Then  came  a  sleeping 
sofa,  a  chair  by  the  one  window,  then  down  the  other 
side  was  a  hand  basin,  a  bathtub  which  he  installed 
himself  (he  had  a  wooden  cover  for  this  and  used 


96   MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

it  for  a  table),  and  then  came  a  typewriter  and  desk, 
a  sectional  bookcase,  and  in  the  center  was  a  little 
table.  The  whole  room  was  fixed  up  like  a  ship's 
cabin,  with  fancy  knots  and  door  pulls,  cabin  lights, 
and  in  fact  he  had  everything  ship-shape  but  a  rudder 
and  side  lights,  and  I  knew  he  would  have  had  these 
if  he  had  had  room  to  hang  them.  Here  is  where 
most  of  his  big  stories  were  written,  in  this  tiny 
little  room  looking  over  the  back  yards  of  some  old- 
fashioned  houses  toward  Broadway.  Here  he  "  doc- 
tored up  "  those  famous  welsh-rabbits  of  his  that 
never  got  stringy,  for  the  inner  circle  of  his  friends. 
He  was  just  as  proud  of  those  rabbits  as  of  the 
best  story  he  ever  wrote. 

Writing  wasn't  the  natural  life  for  Robertson.  He 
was  full-blooded,  strong  as  a  bull,  with  a  46-inch 
chest,  better  fitted  for  an  outdoor  career.  Writing 
made  him  nervous  and  fidgety.  Sometimes  he  would 
get  so  on  edge  that  he  couldn't  write  at  all,  and 
then  he  used  to  dress  up  and  stand  on  the  corner 
of  Sixth  Avenue  and  Twenty-third  Street  and  watch 
the  shoppers  go  by.  This  soon  grew  into  a  habit. 
If  you  wanted  Robertson  around  three  or  four  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon,  here  was  the  place  to  find  him. 
He  said  it  rested  his  brain  and  gave  him  inspiration. 

One  summer  Mrs.  Robertson  closed  up  their  apart- 
ment up-town  and  took  a  vacation  in  the  country, 
leaving  Morgan  to  take  care  of  the  family  cat  at 
the  studio.  Now  a  Twenty-fourth  Street  studio  isn't 
exactly  the  best  place  to  keep  track  of  a  strange 
cat,   and  so  it  proved.     Despite  Morgan's   careful 


THE  MORGAN  ROBERTSON  I  KNEW   97 

watching,  the  cat  crept  out  and  disappeared.  He 
told  me  he  spent  the  whole  night  looking  for  it,  had 
the  pohce  on  the  job,  and  even  asked  the  aid  of  the 
fire  department,  and  finally  inspected  every  tree  in 
Madison  Square  to  find  that  cat.  He  never  found 
it.  But  he  was  so  upset  that  he  couldn't  work  for 
a  couple  of  days. 

Another  time  he  came  to  me  with  the  proposal  to 
make  some  fancy  sailor  knots.  He  said  he  wanted 
to  do  it  just  for  the  fun  of  it,  to  rest  his  nerves. 
He  thought  it  would  be  good  stuff  to  run  on  the  boys' 
page  of  The  Woman's  Home  Companion,  of  which  I 
was  then  the  editor.  It  sounded  good  to  me,  and  he 
went  ahead  and  made  some  of  the  most  wonderful 
knots  I  have  ever  seen.  I  am  treasuring  some  of 
them  home  now. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  I  bought  "  The 
Chemical  Comedy,"  which,  I  believe,  was  the  first  of 
the  famous  "  Finnegan  "  stories.  The  rest  of  the 
staff  didn't  think  "  The  Chemical  Comedy  "  was  quite 
the  story  for  a  woman's  magazine.  Possibly  it  wasn't, 
but  I  took  a  chance,  and  now  I  am  glad  I  did. 

We  used  to  have  great  discussions  about  his  interest 
in  psychic  things — hypnotism,  telepathy,  sub-con- 
scious mind,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  I  never  took 
much  stock  in  the  occult,  but  here  is  a  strange  thing. 
The  same  time  Morgan  made  those  fancy  sailor  knots 
for  me,  he  braided  me  a  watch  fob  out  of  a  leather 
shoe  string.  It  was  a  gem  of  its  kind,  with  all  sorts 
of  fancy  twists  and  turns  and  decorative  knots  that 
only  a  real  old-time  sailor  knows  how  to  make.     I 


98   MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

wore  this  watch  fob  daily  for  ten  years;  yet  when 
I  got  back  to  the  office  after  attending  his  funeral  at 
The  Little  Church  Around  the  Corner,  the  watch 
fob  broke.  Just  a  coincidence,  of  course,  but  it  made 
me  wonder. 

Poor  old  Morgan!  He  never  got  his  reward.  If 
he  could  onlj^  have  lived  to  reap  the  benefits  of  his 
moving-picture  rights,  and  from  the  remarkable  sale 
of  his  collected  works  !  It  was  the  kind  of  prosperity 
he  had  always  dreamed  about;  yet  he  had  to  die  just 
as  the  dream  was  about  to  be  realized.  It  is  a  queer 
fact,  but  as  true  as  the  hills,  that  a  man  in  the  literary 
game  has  to  die  before  folks  really  begin  to  realize 
how  big  he  was.  Now  that  Morgan  is  dead  and  gone, 
everybody  is  glad  to  say  they  knew  him.  I  am,  I 
know — and  I  always  was. 


THE  PSYCHIC  MYSTERY  OF 
HIS  TIME 

By  henry  W.  FRANCIS 

The  folloxcing  article  icas  written  hy  a  journalist 
and  an  admirer  of  Morgan  Robertson.  It  shozcs  that 
side  of  Morgan  Robertson  which  was  unknown  to  his 
many  readers  and  which  was  the  subject  of  much 
debate  among  his  friends.  This  article  was  originally 
published  in  the  Philadelphia  "  Public  Ledger." 

ONE  night,  forty  years  ago,  as  the  brig  Palmetto, 
bound,  lumber-laden,  to  New  York  from  Fer- 
nandina,  lay  becalmed  off  the  Charleston  Light,  Mor- 
gan Robertson  spun  his  first  yarn.  One  day  last 
week  as  the  ebb  tide  washed  the  Atlantic  City  sands 
he  spun  the  last. 

Both  were  told  to  the  sea  alone.  To  the  first  story, 
a  painstaking  recital  of  "  The  Tempest,"  studiously 
memorized,  the  Palmetto's  crew  paid  no  attention. 
For  the  last — a  story  of  a  broken  spirit — the  world 
had  no  ears. 

And  so  Morgan  Andrew  Robertson,  sailor,  jeweler's 
errand  runner,  clock  repairer,  diamond-cutter,  inven- 
tor, and  foremost  American  sea-stor}^  writer  of  the 
generation,  died  as  he  had  wished,  standing  up,  his 
"  last  breath  a  salty  one." 

He  was  the  psychic  mystery  of  the  decade.  An 
unlettered  sailor,  he  grinned  at  the  grammarians  and 

99 


100     MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

wrote  "  Sinful  Peck,"  a  marvel  of  precise  English  and 
inimitable  st^'le;  awed  by  the  subtleties  of  long  divi- 
sion he  nevertheless  smiled  at  the  savants,  solved 
problems  in  a  few  weeks  with  which  they  had  struggled 
vainly  for  years  and  invented  his  improved  periscope. 
Knowing  nothing  of  the  properties  of  light,  he  stirred 
the  scientific  world  with  the  "  invisible  searchlight." 

His  paradoxical  personality  amazed  all  who  knew 
him,  but  no  more  than  it  astounded  Robertson  him- 
self until  he  postulated  an  explanatory  theory  to 
which  he  held  until  his  death. 

He  implicitly  believed  that  some  discarnate  soul, 
some  spirit  entity  with  literary  ability,  denied  physi- 
cal expression,  had  commandeered  his  body  and  brain 
for  the  purpose  of  giving  to  the  world  the  literary 
gems  which  made  him  famous. 

He  regarded  himself  as  a  mere  amanuensis,  the  tool 
of  "  a  real  writer,"  whose  shadowy  fingers  could  not 
grasp  the  pen  and  grip  the  multitude  with  the  ad- 
ventures of  a  Finnegan  or  a  Captain  Bilke.  In  his 
role  as  inventor,  Robertson  regarded  himself  as  a 
laboratory  underling,  whose  ears  happened  to  be 
sensitive  enough  to  hear  the  whispered  orders  of  a 
"  master  "  in  the  Great  Silence  beyond. 

And  "  Morg,"  as  his  intimates  knew  him,  rebelled 
against  the  order  of  things. 

"  I  am  a  sailor  who  has  been  transformed  into  a 
writer,  Inventor,  and  several  other  things,"  he  said 
shortly  before  his  death,  "  but  now  I  feel  myself  going 
— slipping  back  to  the  sea  where  I  belong — getting 
back  to  the  old  mental  state,  but  without   the  old 


THE  PSYCHIC  MYSTERY  OF  HIS  TIME     JQl 

physical  state  to  back  it  up.  From  the  deck  I  was 
put  at  the  desk,  from  the  desk  I  was  shoved  into 
the  laboratory,  then  I  slipped  back  to  the  desk,  and 
now — now  I've  slipped  back  to  the  sea." 

Radical  as  was  Robertson's  theory,  it  was  borne 
out  by  his  life  and  method  of  work.  For  months  at 
a  time,  although  mentally  alert,  he  was  incapable 
of  correctly  writing  a  single  sentence.  Every  mail 
would  bring  editorial  injunctions  to  "  please  hurry  " 
manuscripts  already  ordered  or  to  submit  others,  to- 
gether with  "  final  "  requests  to  "  please  remit  and 
obviate  the  necessity  of  legal  action." 

Robertson,  torn  by  the  impossibility  of  acquiescence 
to  either,  and  the  even  more  presshig  problem  of  pro- 
viding food  for  himself,  would  pace  his  cabin  studio 
pleading  with  his  astral  helper  until  patience  lan- 
guished and  then  the  "  psychic  partner  "  would  be 
showered  with  all  the  fiery  imprecations  ever  wafted 
over  the  seven  seas. 

Life  was  hard  for  Robertson  at  such  times  and  he 
would  sink  to  the  lowest  depths  of  depression.  Ob- 
durate landlords,  dunning  creditors,  supersympa- 
thetic  acquaintances  and  heavy-footed  messengers 
from  insistent  editors  were  the  bane  of  his  existence. 

A  stout  Chubb  lock  on  his  studio  door  was  his 
salvation.  Sheltered  behind  it,  he  was  always  "  out  " 
to  the  uninitiated,  while  the  initiated  knew  he  was 
not    "  at    home." 

For  weeks  he  would  wrestle  with  his  "  mind 
states  "  in  this  manner,  and  then,  suddenly,  a  muffled 
gatling-gunning  sound  would  stir  the  silence  of  the 


ab^  vMOHQ An  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

studio  halls.  Robertson's  old,  very  old  typewriter 
was  being  manipulated  at  high  speed.  Finnegan  was 
adventuring.    Morgan  was  at  work. 

Such  spurts  of  effort  would  last  from  two  days 
to  a  week  or  more,  and  during  some  of  them  Robertson 
would  write  two  or  three  stories. 

His  "  Ghost  of  the  Gun  Deck  "  was  written  in  an 
afternoon.  At  one  o'clock  he  was  prone  on  his 
"  bunk,"  without  an  idea — without  a  hope.  At  six 
o'clock  he  was  in  a  gilded  restaurant  radiating  pros- 
perity and  "  eating  up  the  gundeck  "  as  he  put  it. 

Once  started,  he  wrote  rapidly,  unhesitatingly,  as 
writes  a  stenographer  taking  dictation.  One  story 
finished,  he  would  often  immediately  start  another, 
not  pausing  until  the  end  was  reached.  Sometimes, 
however,  he  would  arise  from  his  lethargy  with  a 
start,  rush  to  his  typewriter  and — write  next — no 
clew  to  the  climax  of  a  false  alarm. 

Not  infrequently  a  story  half-done  would  remain 
so  for  weeks,  Robertson  declaring  he  had  no  idea 
what  to  write  next — no  clew  to  the  climax  of  the  tale. 

Needing  the  money  which  the  story  completed 
would  bring  he  attempted  once  to  finish  one  without 
the  help  of  his  astral  "  boss."  The  result  was  abso- 
lute failure.  Misspelled  and  amateurish,  the  "  unin- 
spired '*  addition  had  nothing  in  common  with  the 
rest  of  the  story.  Morgan  never  tried  again  to 
write  "  alone." 


MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 
By  BOZEMAN  BULGER 

The  folloxiing  sketch  of  Morgan  Robertson  was 
originally  published  in  the  "  Metropolitan.''  Mr. 
Bulger  is  the  Baseball  Editor  of  the  New  York 
"  Evening  World."  In  the  most  trying  years  of  his 
career,  he  was  Mr.  Robertson's  dependable  friend.  In 
appreciation  of  what  he  had  done,  Morgan  Robertson 
bequeathed  to  Mr.  Bulger  a  scarf-pin  that  O.  Henry, 
dying,  had  given  to  the  sailor-author. 

A  PEN  picture  of  Morgan  Robertson  would  be 
as  inadequate  as  a  photograph,  and  I  shall 
not  attempt  it.  Portraits  of  him  hang  in  nearly 
every  magazine  office  in  the  country,  and  yet  not  one 
of  them  conveys  any  idea  to  the  casual  visitor  as  to 
just  what  kind  of  a  man  he  was.  They  show  the 
contour  of  his  strong,  square-jawed  face,  a  fixed 
expression  and — that's  all. 

No  portrait  and  no  pen  picture  could  compre 
hensively  describe  Morgan  Robertson's  intense 
masculinity ;  that  twinkling  expression  in  his  eyes, 
changing  to  one  of  ferocity  as  his  mind  flitted  from 
one  phase  of  a  subject  to  another.  Nothing  could 
describe  his  vanity  and  pride  of  accomplishment, 
even  while  relating  a  tale  of  personal  woe.  A  men- 
tal picture  of  this  remarkable  man  is  next  to  im- 

103 


104     MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

possible  unless  you  knew  him  in  life  and  associated 
with  him  frequently.  His  grufFness,  for  instance,  was 
one  of  his  charms. 

Try  to  think  of  Robertson  as  a  sailor.  If  you 
know  sailors,  that  will  suffice.  He  was  of  a  short, 
stocky  build  that  carried  with  it  an  expression  of 
great  muscular  strength.  He  walked  like  a  sailor, 
talked  like  a  sailor,  and  thought  like  a  sailor.  And 
he  was  partially  bald,  if  that  helps. 

No  matter  how  painstaking  his  efforts,  Morgan 
Robertson's  clothes  never  appeared  to  fit.  His 
squatty,  and  still  angular,  figure  was  no  boon  to  a 
tailor.  To  him  the  blending  of  shades  of  color  in 
dress  meant  nothing.  With  a  black  suit  he  would 
wear  a  waistcoat  of  brocaded  tan,  if  it  happened  to 
be  the  most  convenient,  and  the  necktie  might  have 
been  maroon,  old  rose,  green  or  blue,  for  all  he  cared. 

At  the  same  time,  as  incongruous  as  it  may  seem, 
Robertson  was  intensely  fond  of  good  clothes.  He 
doted  on  expensive  overcoats  and  velour  hats.  He 
would  spend  his  last  cent  on  either  of  these  articles 
and  walk  home,  no  matter  if  the  distance  was  five 
miles. 

A  few  weeks  before  his  sudden  death  at  Atlantic 
City,  where  he  had  gone  to  rest  and  build  up,  Rob- 
ertson came  to  see  me  one  night  with  the  gladsome 
news  that  his  books  were  beginning  to  sell  and  that 
already  his  royalties  had  amounted  to  nearly  five 
hundred  dollars.  For  two  years  prior  to  this  he 
had  not  earned  as  much  as  twenty-five  dollars  a  week 
and  was  penniless. 


MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  IMAN     105 

"  They  are  going  to  advance  me  $200  to-morrow," 
he  told  me,  and  his  plans  for  disposing  of  that  money 
were  as  enthusiastic  as  those  of  a  schoolboy. 

His  first  expenditures  were  $2.50  for  a  pair  of 
shoes,  $12  for  a  velour  hat  and  $115  for  an  overcoat ! 

That  overcoat,  by  the  way,  he  exhibited  along 
Broadway  with  the  greatest  pride,  and  it  was  not 
fur,  either.  It  was  with  utmost  care  that  he  laid 
it  across  his  arm  as  he  started  for  Atlantic  City.  He 
also  bought  a  cane.  Being  fifty-four  j'ears  old,  and 
having  suffered  exposure  at  sea,  he  was  troubled  with 
rheumatism  at  times  and  explained  that,  fearing  an- 
other attack,  he  might  need  the  stick  in  walking.  His 
friends — those  who  loved  him — accepted  the  unneces- 
sary explanation  with  a  smile,  knowing  full  well  his 
delight  in  twirling  a  cane  as  he  called  on  the  editors 
to  tell  them  of  his  new  prosperity. 

Though  he  had  a  keen  sense  of  humor,  Morgan 
Robertson,  in  temperament,  was  either  hard  or  harder. 
There  was  little  of  tenderness  in  him.  His  masculinity 
forbade  that.  He  could  be  generous,  kind,  and  fair, 
but  never  tender.  His  love  was  permanent  and  his 
hate  undying.  Morgan  Robertson  talked  in  a  deep 
bass  voice  that  reverberated  about  the  room  in  a 
way  to  make  one  picture  him  on  the  deck  of  a  ship 
giving  orders  through  a  megaphone. 

Robertson  began  to  write,  not  for  the  love  of  it, 
but  because  he  got  the  impression,  after  reading  one 
of  Kipling's  stories,  that  it  was  an  easy  way  to  make 
money.  At  first  he  knew  nothing  of  style  or  diction, 
but  having  a  sea-tale  in  mind  that  he  thought  might 


106     MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

be  worth  some  money,  he  sat  down  and  wrote  it  on 
the  top  of  a  washtub — the  kind  used  in  New  York 
flats.  This  story  was  "  The  Survival  of  the  Fittest," 
and  it  came  close  to  being  a  sea  masterpiece. 

Morgan  Robertson  always  regretted  a  lack  of 
education  and  was  doubtful  of  his  literary  English. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  from  studious  reading,  he  was 
better  educated  than  the  average  writer,  and  an  editor 
described  his  English  to  me  one  day  as  "  ninety-nine 
per  cent  pure." 

Though  a  sailor  by  instinct  and  a  lover  of  all 
things  Bohemian,  Robertson  was  extremely  pains- 
taking in  his  study  of  a  subject  before  he  undertook 
to  embody  it  in  a  story.  It  was  through  his  deter- 
mined efforts  and  long  study  to  get  things  right 
that  he  incurred  his  well-known  enmity  toward 
magazine  editors  in  general.  There  were  a  few 
editors — a  very  few — that  he  regarded  great  men, 
but  his  dislike  for  the  others  was  absolutely  sincere. 
It  was  not  assumed  for  the  purpose  of  amus- 
ing his  hearers,  though  it  usually  had  that  effect. 
He  could  never  reconcile  the  idea  of  a  young  editor, 
just  out  of  college,  perhaps,  glancing  over  his  man- 
uscript carelessly  and  turning  it  down  with  the 
comment  that  the  situations  therein  described  were 
impossible.  On  some  of  these  situations  the  writer 
probably  had  spent  weeks.  Robertson  was  a  very 
glow  writer  and  seldom  ever  turned  out  more  than 
one  story  a  month. 

On  one  occasion  when  he  lived  near  me  he  began 
to    develop    a    story    that    dealt    with    a    subject 


MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN     107 

scientific  and  technical.  He  had  not  studied  physics 
or  chemistry  and  was  not  quite  sure  of  his  ground. 
Seeing  but  one  way  out  of  the  difficulty,  he  tossed 
aside  the  few  pages  of  manuscript,  went  downtown 
and  purchased  a  text-book  on  physics — Steele's,  I 
believe  it  was — and  studied  it  diligently  for  more 
than  a  month.  At  the  end  of  that  time  he  had  a 
rather  thorough  idea  of  the  principles  of  physics 
and  resumed  his  story.  In  the  meantime,  the  story 
and  the  pay  therefor  having  been  delayed,  he  had 
done  without  things  to  eat,  so  determined  was  he  to 
be   technically   correct. 

"  Then,"  he  said  to  me  as  he  returned  from  a 
magazine  office  in  thorough  disgust  and  disheart- 
ened, "a  little  popinjay  of  an  editor  returns  my 
manuscript  because  he  doubts  the  correctness  of  my 
theories." 

Later  the  story  was  accepted  by  another  magazine 
and  attracted  wide  attention. 

"  It  is  not  my  contention,"  he  remarked  to  a 
party  of  us  one  night,  while  in  one  of  his  rampant 
moods,  "  that  an  editor  should  be  able  to  read  Latin 
and  Greek  and  understand  the  sciences,  but  I  do 
contend,"  and  he  slapped  his  fist  on  the  table  with 
a  resounding  whack,  "  that  he  should  be  able  to  read 
and  write." 

After  he  had  been  writing  awhile,  Morgan  Robert- 
son took  up  the  study  of  psychology  and  became 
obsessed  with  some  very  queer  theories.  To  him 
there  were  no  such  things  as  coincidences.  All 
those  he  could  trace  to  "  psychic  telepathy."     He 


108     INIORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

firmly  believed  that  the  editors  had  a  sub-conscious 
enmity  toward  him  and  that  preyed  on  his  mind 
until  he  felt  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  him  to 
get  fair  treatment  in  the  consideration  of  his  writings. 

The  editors  understood  these  whims  and  eccen- 
tricities of  Robertson  and,  realizing  that  it  would 
be  impossible  to  disabuse  his  mind  of  such  ideas, 
humored  him  as  best  they  could.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  most  all  editors  liked  Morgan  Robertson, 
despite  his  belligerent  attitude  toward  them,  biit 
try  as  I  would,  I  could  never  convince  him  of  their 
friendship. 

This  great  narrator  of  sea-tales  was  under  no 
misapprehension  as  to  the  quality  of  his  work.  It 
was  good,  and  he  knew  it,  and  at  no  time  would 
he  hesitate  to  so  express  himself.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  even  during  his  long  spell  of  misfortune  and 
poverty,  Robertson  was  very  vain. 

He  knew  that  rival  writers  occasionally  took  his 
themes  or  plots  and  revamped  them  into  other  forms, 
and  at  this  he  would  fly  into  indignant  rage. 

"  Yes,  and  they  are  rewriting  my  stories  and 
selling  them  for  two  and  three  hundred  dollars, 
when  the  best  I  could  get  for  the  original  was  some- 
times less  than  one  hundred,"  he  would  declare  with 
vehemence.  Vehemence  in  Robertson  meant  more  than 
in  the  ordinary  person.  With  that  powerful  voice 
and  equally  powerful  fist  he  could  emphasize  a  point 
in  a  most  convincing  manner. 

Even  while  in  belligerent  moods  it  was  his  utter 
candor  that  made  Morgan  Robertson  amusing  to  his 


MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN     109 

friends.  Though  vain  and  proud  over  his  writings, 
he  would  explain  in  detail  domestic  hardships  with 
no  apparent  embarrassment. 

One  night  he  called  to  borrow  a  dollar,  explain- 
ing that  he  had  walked  all  the  way  because  he  had 
no  carfare.  He  candidly  told  me  that  there  had  not 
been  a  penny  in  his  home  for  two  days  and  that 
he  had  been  unable  to  establish  credit  or  find  friends. 

"How  did  you  eat?"  I  asked  him. 

"  We  had  ordered  some  chopped  meat  for  my  wife's 
collie,"  he  said,  "  and  as  it  was  excellent  meat  I  acted 
with  a  firm  hand  and  decided  that  dog  should  eat  dog 
biscuit,  regardless  of  consequences,  until  I  could  get 
downtown.  I  took  that  meat  and  made  one  of  the 
finest  dishes  of  Hungarian  goulash  that  you  ever 
tasted.  By  the  way,"  he  added,  "  you  want  to  learn 
how  to  make  that."  Then  he  carefully  explained  the 
method  of  preparing  his  favorite  dish.  (The  recipe 
is  given  with  others  at  the  end  of  this  volume  for  the 
benefit   of  those  who  may  enjoy  his   stories.) 

When  Robertson's  first  book  was  published  and 
had  appeared  on  sale  in  the  larger  bookstores,  his 
pride  knew  no  bounds.  In  later  years  he  often  told 
of  how  this  pride  was  given  a  severe  and  unexpected 
jolt. 

Armed  with  a  cane  and  attired  in  what  he  regarded 
as  very  stylish  clothes,  the  author  visited  the  best 
known  bookstore  in  New  York  and  stood  around  for 
a  few  moments  expecting  to  be  the  recipient  of  many 
congratulations.  He  was  smoking  that  old  pipe,  so 
familiar  to  his  acquaintances — he  always  smoked  it — 


lia    MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

and  asked  casual  questions,  awaiting  the  denouement 
of  his  visit.  Presently  an  important  looking  young 
lady  spied  him  and  came  down  the  aisle  as  if  to  offer 
the  congratulations  that  he  expected.  His  chest  ex- 
panded and  then  fell. 

"  You'll  have  to  throw  that  pipe  away  if  you 
remain  in  here,"  she  said  to  him.  "  Smoking  is  not 
allowed — especially  pipes." 

Robertson  could  never  be  persuaded  to  enter  that 
store  again.  Not  only  had  he  not  been  recognized, 
but  he  had  been  insulted,  according  to  his  way  of 
thinking. 

Though  fourteen  volumes  of  the  Robertson  books 
were  published  at  intervals,  it  is  one  of  those  peculiar 
caprices  of  fate  that  none  of  them  sold  until  a  short 
time  before  his  death,  when  they  were  republished  in 
a  uniform  edition. 

With  a  grim  touch  of  humor,  Mr.  Robertson  had 
framed  a  statement  he  received  from  his  publishers 
two  years  ago.  Just  one  copy  of  "  Sinful  Peck " 
had  been  sold  that  month,  and  his  royalty  check 
was  for  12^  cents. 

Morgan  Robertson  was  intensely  proud  and  would 
accept  no  charity,  though  he  would  borrow  money 
in  small  sums.  I  have  in  my  possession  now  a  mem- 
orandum book  which  he  left.  In  it  are  the  names  of 
more  than  twenty  persons  who  had  advanced  him 
small  amounts  on  various  occasions,  some  of  them 
as  low  as  twenty-five  cents.  None  are  higher  than 
five  dollars.     It  was  his  earnest  wish,  in  case  of  his 


MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  IVIAN     111 

death,  that  these  be  paid  out  of  his  royalties,  which 
will  be  done,  provided  the  creditors  will  accept. 

I  have  never  seen  Robertson  show  emotion  but  once. 
His  iron  will  held  back  any  display  of  helplessness. 

Knowing  that  he  needed  at  least  $150  to  be  made 
comfortable,  temporarily,  Irvin  S.  Cobb  and  myself 
made  a  tour  of  the  clubs  and  other  places  where 
writers  and  theatrical  people  gather.  We  assessed 
each  man  five  dollars  and  thirty  of  them  responded — 
in  fact,  everybody  that  we  asked.  Many  of  them 
had  never  known  Robertson,  but  admired  his  writings 
and  were  glad  to  contribute  to  what  we  had  to  call 
a  loan  so  that  it  would  be  accepted. 

Very  cautiously  I  had  to  explain  to  the  old  author 
that  these  men,  knowing  that  he  was  temporarily 
embarrassed,  had  asked  that  he  accept  this  loan  until 
he  was  on  his  feet. 

"  Let  me  see  the  names,"  he  demanded. 

Some  of  them  he  did  not  know,  but  as  his  eyes 
glanced  over  the  list  he  turned  away  and  his  shoulders 
shook.    Morgan  Robertson  was  actually  crying ! 

"  I  never  thought  that  my  friends  would  have  to 
take  up  a  collection  for  me,"  he  said.  "  But  give 
me  that  list,"  he  added,  his  old-time  vigor  returning, 
"  and  I'll  see  that  every  one  of  them  is  paid." 

While  he  was  in  the  hospital  a  little  later  on  he 
wrote  me  a  note  in  which  he  said  that  he  realized  these 
men  would  never  take  the  money  or,  perhaps,  he  would 
never  be  able  to  pay  it. 

"If  I  should  not  get  well,"  he  added,  "I  want 


112     MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

each  of  them  to  be  presented  with  an  autographed 
set  of  my  books.  That,  I  beheve,  will  square  the 
debt,  and  at  the  same  time  they  will  have  something 
to  remind  them  of  how  grateful  I  was." 

In  the  course  of  his  psychic  studies  Morgan  Rob- 
ertson had  acquired  a  belief  that  he  would  some  day 
go  insane.  This  preyed  on  his  mind  so,  at  intervals, 
that  he  would  figure  out  schemes  to  test  himself  and 
determine  if  he  really  had  lost  his  mind. 

We  finally  induced  him  to  go  to  Bellevue  Hospital, 
mainly  for  a  rest. 

With  a  cunning  that  was  as  amusing  as  it  was 
pathetic,  he  took  advantage  of  it  in  a  way  least  ex- 
pected.    He  insisted  on  going  alone. 

Arriving  there,  he  told  the  physician  in  charge  of 
his  belief  that  he  would  some  day  go  insane.  He 
would  give  no  particulars  and  that  explained  why 
none  of  us  heard  from  him  for  two  weeks.  They  had 
placed  him  in  the  psychopathic  ward ! 

It  was  a  week  before  he  knew  that  they  thought 
him  an  insane  patient  and  had  him  under  observa- 
tion. The  experience  thoroughly  cured  him  of  his 
morbid  belief — fad,  it  really  was. 

Upon  his  discharge  from  the  hospital  Robertson 
walked  across  the  street  to  a  saloon,  ordered  a  drink 
of  whiskey  and  paid  for  it.  He  then  deliberately 
poured  the  whiskey  into  a  cuspidor  and  started  to 
walk  away.  The  bartender  looked  at  him  in  astonish- 
ment. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you?  "  the  barman  de- 
manded to  know.    "  Ain't  that  whiskey  all  right  ?  " 


MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  JMAN     113 

"  I  just  wanted  to  test  my  will  power,"  Robertson 
replied. 

"  There's  a  hospital  for  lunatics  across  the  street," 
suggested  the  boniface.  "  Maybe  you'd  better  go 
over  and  test  that.     You're  off  your  nut." 

With  a  triumphant  smile  Morgan  then  drew  from 
his  pocket  a  certificate,  showing  that  he  was  of  sound 
mind. 

He  was  very  proud  of  that  certificate  and  exhibited 
it  frequently. 

About  this  time  there  appeared  in  the  Saturday 
Evening  Post  an  anonymous  autobiography  called 
"  Gathering  No  Moss."  It  was  the  life  of  Morgan 
Robertson  written  in  the  first  person.  It  attracted 
such  attention  to  his  years  of  struggling  as  an  author 
that  a  movement  was  started  to  publish  his  stories 
in  a  uniform  set  of  books. 

The  books  began  to  sell  immediately  and  Robert- 
son's troubles  were  nearly  over. 

One  afternoon,  as  this  era  of  prosperity  was  dawn- 
ing, Robertson  joined  a  party  of  us  in  a  billiard- 
room  where  one  of  his  friends  had  just  won  the 
tournament  cup.  A  dozen  or  more  were  sitting  at  a 
round  table,  drinking  out  of  the  cup  to  celebrate 
the  victory.  Morgan  sat  down  and  took  a  sip  of 
the  wine. 

"How  goes  it,  Morgan?"  one  of  his  friends  in- 
quired. 

"  Boys,"  he  announced  in  that  bellowing  bass  voice, 
"  I'll  never  have  to  write  another  line.  I'm  no  longer 
a  slave  to  magazine  editors.     My  books  are  selling 


114     MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

and  I  have  here  " — he  reached  into  an  inside  pocket 
— "  a  certificate  showing  that  I  am  not  insane."  He 
was  deadly  serious. 

A  few  of  the  party,  unfamiliar  with  the  eccentrici- 
ties of  Robertson,  began  to  edge  away.  To  them  it 
was  uncanny. 

"  Still,"  one  of  them  suggested  in  a  side  whisper, 
"  he's  got  something  on  us  at  that.  We've  got  no 
certificate." 

Robertson  overheard  the  remark  and  laughed 
heartily.  He  often  related  that  incident  as  his  one 
best  joke. 

As  Morgan  Robertson  grew  older  his  longing  to  go 
back  to  the  sea  was  intensified.  He  got  out  his  papers 
as  first  mate  and  was  prepared  in  case  an  oppor- 
tunity should  arise. 

One  of  the  most  satisfying  incidents  of  his  late 
days  was  the  taking  of  a  moving  picture  with  him 
at  the  wheel  of  a  big  sailing  vessel.  He  had  sold  one 
of  his  sea  stories  to  the  picture  concern  and  it  was 
a  condition  that  he  had  to  appear  in  it  personally. 
Such  a  provision,  in  writing,  was  unnecessary.  He 
was  delighted. 

The  photograph  of  Robertson  at  the  wheel,  in  his 
shirt  sleeves,  which  was  sent  to  friends  all  over  the 
country,  was  absolutely  the  best  likeness  of  hira 
ever  taken.  His  whole  spirit  was  in  that  photograph 
and  he  never  tired  of  looking  at  it.  He  would  have 
lived  on  that  boat  continuously  if  the  owners  had  so 
desired. 

The  gradually  increasing  sale  of  his  books  enlivened 


MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  ^lAN     115 

Robertson's  spirits  wonderfully,  but  he  was  not  well 
physically.  He  found  great  difficulty  in  sleeping. 
He  began  to  look  haggard  and  worn- 
It  was  suggested  that  the  old  writer  take  a  trip  to 
Atlantic  City,  where  he  could  rest  up  and  get  strong. 
At  first  Robertson  would  not  go  without  his  wife, 
but  she  finally  persuaded  him  that  it  would  be  better 
for  him  to  go  alone  so  that  he  could  make  arrange- 
ments for  her  to  join  him.  later. 

He  went  away  carrying  that  precious  overcoat 
across  his  arm  and  in  his  hand  was  a  cane.  On  his 
head  was  the  slouch  hat  that  he  loved. 
That  was  the  last  his  friends  saw  of  him. 
They  found  Morgan  Robertson  dead,  standing 
almost  erect  with  his  hand  resting  on  the  side  of  an 
oak  dresser.  Near  him  was  an  open  window  through 
which  came  a  breeze  from  the  Atlantic. 

It  has  pleased  me  to  think  that,  when  the  hand  of 
death  struck  him,  he  was  looking  out  at  the  sea.  I 
know  that  is  the  way  Morgan  Robertson  would  have 
liked  to  die. 


MORGAN  ROBERTSON 
By  ARTHUR  B.  MAURICE 

The  following  article  originally  appeared  as  an 
editorial  in  "  The  Bookman."  It  contains  an  inter- 
esting appreciation  of  the  sincerity  of  Morgan 
Robertson's  work.  In  all  his  efforts,  as  a  sailor  and 
a  skilled  mechanic,  and  later  as  a  writer,  Morgan 
Robertson  showed  a  painstaking  thoroughness  that 
was  notable  for  its  rarity  in  a  hurly-burly  world. 

T  N  the  daily  papers  of  March  25,  1915,  there  ap- 
■*■  peared  a  news  story  telling  how  Morgan  Robert- 
son, the  writer  of  sea  stories,  had  been  found  dead 
leaning  against  a  bureau  in  a  hotel  in  Atlantic  City, 
New  Jersey.  Just  a  year  before,  almost  to  a  day, 
there  had  been  printed  in  the  Saturday  Evening  Post 
of  Philadelphia  an  article  entitled  "  Gathering  No 
Moss,"  which  told  with  pathetic  detail  all  the  compli- 
cations, the  ennuis,  the  disappointments,  and  heart- 
aches of  the  writer's  life.  So  effective  was  the  article 
in  its  tragic  simplicity  that  it  brought  responses  from 
all  parts  of  the  country.  Here  was  a  man  reduced 
almost  to  penury,  not  because  he  lacked  either  talent 
or  industry,  but  through  a  congenital  inability  to 
retain  what  he  had  won.  The  case  was  so  clear, 
it  recalled  so  pitiably  the  traditions  of  the  Grub 
Street  of  other  days.     "  Can't  you  do  something.''  " 

116 


MORGAN  ROBERTSON  117 

wrote  one  novelist  very  near  the  apex  among  con- 
temporary American  story-tellers.  "  It  wouldn't  be 
a  pity  if  he  weren't  the  real  thing;  readers  are  miss- 
ing something.  It  isn't  sensible  that  he  should  be 
left  out."  Something  was  done,  and  it  is  pleasant 
to  recall  that  the  last  twelve  months  of  his  life  were 
far  happier  in  reward  and  recognition  than  the  pre- 
ceding years  had  been.  But  want  and  physical  suffer- 
ing had  exacted  their  toll.  The  respite  was  only 
respite. 

The  Bohemia  which  Morgan  Robertson  knew  and 
in  which  he  suffered  was  not  confined  to  city  attics. 
It  was  a  Bohemia  of  far  horizons.  With  that  Bo- 
hemia he  threw  in  his  lot  when,  as  a  lad  of  sixteen,  he 
ran  away  to  sea,  fired  by  an  ambition  to  be  first 
mate.  His  father  was  a  captain  on  the  Great  Lakes, 
but  he  had  wished  his  son  to  follow  the  career  of  a 
landsman.  But  Morgan's  mind  was  made  up,  and, 
leaving  his  home  in  New  York  State,  he  found  his 
way  to  the  seacoast  and  shipped  as  cabin-boy  and 
general  fag,  doing  his  own  and  everyone  else's  work 
at  the  gentle  urging  of  fists  and  belaying  pins.  Twice 
round  the  world  he  sailed,  shipping  with  all  sorts  of 
crafts,  from  sailing  vessels  to  transatlantic  liners, 
until  his  early  ambition  to  become  first  mate  was 
finally  realized.  During  that  period  he  had  most 
of  the  adventures  which  befell  his  heroes.  Sometimes 
he  was  half-starved,  and  more  than  once  he  had  hair- 
breadth escapes  from  death;  while  his  exploits  fight- 
ing bullies  would  make  reading  more  interesting  than 
polite.     Once   he  went   ashore,  disgusted   with   sea- 


118    MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

faring,  and  became  a  cowboy  on  the  plains.  Then 
he  drifted  to  sea  again,  and  for  a  time  was  skipper 
of  a  millionaire's  yacht.  Once  he  taught  young  ladies 
how  to  swim,  and  once  he  even  thought  he  was  an 
Anarchist.     But  nobody  believed  him. 

By  this  time  Morgan  Robertson's  illusions  were 
all  gone.  The  futureless  life  of  the  sailor  appealed 
less  and  less  to  him.  One  day  he  rolled  into  the 
office  of  a  phrenologist  to  have  his  "  bumps  "  read. 
The  phrenologist  said  he  was  "  constructive,"  and 
urged  him  to  learn  a  trade.  The  sailor  looked  about 
him,  and  decided  to  become  a  watchmaker.  When 
he  learned  that  he  could  wear  a  white  shirt  all  day 
while  at  work  he  apprenticed  himself  on  the  spot. 
The  ambition  to  be  first  mate  transformed  itself  into 
a  dogged  determination  to  become  an  expert  artisan. 
The  watchmaker's  apprentice  became  a  diamond  and 
pearl  setter,  earning  expert's  wages.  When,  from 
constant  chiseling  of  bright  metals,  his  eyes  gave 
out,  he  turned  to  writing,  and  almost  instinctively 
to  the  sea  for  inspiration.  His  first  effort,  however, 
was  a  poem,  now  dead,  for  which  he  cherished  an 
unusual  tenderness.  Then  grimly  he  settled  down 
to  the  construction  of  his  tales  of  life  in  strange 
scenes.     But  at  first  success  was  slow  in  coming. 

Once,  during  his  darkest  days  of  publisher  hunt- 
ing, after  one  of  his  best  stories  had  been  returned 
with  regret,  Robertson  went  in  despair  to  his  old 
"  shop  "  in  the  diamond  district  of  New  York  City 
to  ask  for  work.  An  order  had  come  in  that  needed 
the  finest  and  most  delicate  workmanship — a  necklace 


MORGAN  ROBERTSON  119 

of  diamonds.  The  writer  took  the  little  packet  of 
diamonds  and  tramped  home  with  them,  as  he  had 
tramped  down  to  the  shop — for  reasons  of  economy. 
Weary  and  worn,  his  brain  seething  with  the  adven- 
tures of  that  other  struggle  whose  story,  "  The  Sur- 
vival of  the  Fittest,"  he  afterward  wrote,  the  dim- 
eyed  artisan  set  to  work.  All  night  he  cut  and 
engraved,  growing  blinder  every  hour,  but  sticking 
to  the  task  until  the  diamonds  were  one  line  of 
shining  white  before  him,  without  form  or  meaning. 
The  last  few  stones  were  set  by  feeling  alone.  The 
stone  was  worked  into  place,  the  tool,  dipped  in  tur- 
pentine to  make  the  cutting  bright,  did  the  delicate 
chiseling  guided  by  instinct.  In  the  morning  Rob- 
ertson took  the  necklace  back  to  the  shop,  almost 
certain  that  he  had  wrought  its  ruin.  To  his  amaze- 
ment, it  was  passed  from  hand  to  hand — a  perfect 
piece  of  work.  Then  the  man  who  had  toiled  all  night 
went  home  to  write  about  a  ship's  carpenter  who 
brought  the  ship  to  port  in  the  teeth  of  a  gale,  despite 
the  fact  that  he  knew  nothing  about  navigation. 


THE  MAN  I  KNEW 
By  grace  miller  WHITE 

The  writer  of  the  following  reminiscences  is  the 
author  of  "  Tess  of  the  Storm  Country,"  one  of  the 
recent  best  sellers  and  a  big  success  when  dramatized 
for  the  movies.  Miss  White  writes  of  the  days  when 
both  she  and  Morgan  Robertson  were  struggling  for 
recognition.  Womanlike  she  remembers  the  softer 
side  of  the  gruff  sailor-author,  which  is  the  least 
known  to  many  of  his  friends. 

THIS  was  the  man  who  died  with  his  boots  on,  as 
he  had  often  hoped  and  prayed  that  he  would, 
and  many's  the  man  and  woman  living  to  testify  to 
his  generosity  and  manliness.  I  recall  now  episodes 
of  his  charity  during  my  studio  life,  and  at  that 
time,  for  him  to  extend  charity  to  others,  was  to 
take  bread  out  of  his  own  mouth. 

I  remember  one  winter  morning  Morgan  came  to 
me  and  asked  me  if  I  would  make  him  some  coffee. 
He  looked  rather  seedy  and  tired,  and  while  prepar- 
ing him  some  breakfast,  I  listened  to  his  night's 
experience. 

It  seems  the  night  before,  a  terrible  blizzard  had 
struck  New  York,  and  Morgan  had  just  settled  down 
to  his  inevitable  baked  beans  and  coffee.  His  studio, 
by  the  way,  was  a  very  small  one.     In  one  comer  he 

120 


THE  MAN  I  KNEW  121 

had  a  cot  at  the  foot  of  which  was  a  gas  stove,  the 
conventional  size,  oven  and  all.  Near  the  gas  stove 
on  the  other  side  of  the  door  was  the  telephone.  Op- 
posite the  cot  was  a  large  bath-tub  Morgan  had  pur- 
chased from  a  second-hand  man,  and  being  somewhat 
of  a  plumber,  had  rigged  up  a  shower.  He  often  said 
that  every  one  of  those  cold  water  showers  added  min- 
utes and  days  to  his  life.  At  any  rate,  this  wild 
night  he  sat  eating  his  beans  and  drinking  his  coffee, 
when  a  timid  knock  on  his  studio  door  interrupted 
him.  Opening  it,  he  saw  a  slip  of  a  girl,  a  model  by 
trade,  standing  before  him,  drenched  to  the  skin. 

At  Morgan's  gruff  "  Come  in !  "  she  stumbled  into 
the  room  and  burst  out  crying. 

"  What's  the  matter.-^  "  demanded  the  man. 
"  Come  on !  shut  up  now !  be  a  sport !  eat  some 
beans." 

After  the  tears  were  dried  and  the  small  model 
had  partaken  of  the  ever-ready  beans  and  coffee,  she 
told  her  simple  tale  of  deprivation,  and  this  was  it : 

"  I've  no  home  nor  any  bed  to  sleep  in  to-night." 

And  that  was  all. 

Then,  Morganlike,  the  Man  sucked  on  his  old  pipe 
and  blew  out  rings  of  heavy  tobacco  smoke  until  the 
studio  was  one  gray  mist.  Perhaps  through  the 
smoke  some  way  to  help  the  mite  would  present  itself, 
or  a  way  to  find  another  bed  would  loom  out  of  the 
night ;  and  so  the  model  sat  and  waited  and  Morgan 
sat  and  puffed,  and  the  blizzard  outside  raged  in 
greater  fury. 

After  a  while  Morgan  said,  "  Take  off  your  shoes 


122    MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

and  stick  your  feet  in  the  oven.  They  must  be  cold. 
.  .  .  Here,  wait  a  minute.  I'll  take  out  the  beans." 
This  done,  the  small  red  feet  were  wrapped  in  an 
old  shawl  and  put  into  the  gas  oven. 

"  It  feels  so  good,"  sighed  the  model. 

"  You  bet,"  answered  Morgan. 

And  then  once  more  they  sat  in  silence,  miles  of 
smoke  coming  from  the  old  man's  pipe.  After  an 
hour  or  so  Morgan  came  to  a  conclusion. 

"  Guess  I  won't  sleep  here  to-night." 

"  Where  will  you  sleep  ?  "  asked  the  girl. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  A  man,  you  see,  can  sleep 
most  anywhere,  but  I  was  thinking  I'd  find  a  bed,  and 
you  just  tote  off  your  clothes  after  I'm  gone  and  go 
to  sleep.     You're  tired,  ain't  you?" 

"  Yes,  awful  tired,"  answered  the  mite. 

"  All  right  then,"  soothed  the  Man.  "  I'm  going 
to  go  now.  Here,  I'll  take  another  bean  and  another 
drink  of  coffee.  Pretty  bad  outside.  What  you  cry- 
ing for?  " 

"  I  s'pose  it's  because  you're  so  awful  good  to  me. 
I  think  I'd  have  frozen  if  I'd  stayed  out  any  longer, 
and  I'm  so  tired." 

"  Well,  then,  shut  up,  and  I'll  climb  out  and  you 
get  in  bed." 

And  Morgan,  suiting  the  action  to  his  words, 
placed  his  fingers  on  the  handle  of  the  door.  "  But 
I'll  tell  you  one  thing,  Miss,  I  don't  want  you  hang- 
ing around  my  studio  after  nine  o'clock  to-morrow 
morning.    Do  you  hear?" 


THE  IlIAN  I  KNEW  123 

"  Yes,"  murmured  the  girl  sleepily.  "  I'll  sure 
be  out  by  nine  o'clock." 

Then  Morgan  went  out  into  the  hall,  and  closed 
the  door.     Suddenly  he  turned  back  and  knocked. 

"  Oh,  I  was  going  to  tell  you  something,"  said  he, 
as  the  door  opened.  "  Of  course  if  it's  terrible  cold 
out  in  the  morning, — I  mean  about  nine, — you  could 
stay  a  bit  and  wait  until  the  blizzard's  over.  .  .  . 
That's  all." 

And  the  door  closed  again,  and  Morgan,  the  Man, 
went  out  into  the  blizzard.  He  stood  still  on  the 
street  for  a  few  moments  wondering  where  he  was 
going.  He  had  no  money  and  no  friends  any  better 
off  than  himself.  But  he  suddenly  remembered  an 
artist  who  worked  on  Madison  Avenue  and  sometimes 
this  friend  stayed  in  his  studio  all  night  instead  of 
going  to  his  country  place.  So  Morgan  plowed  his 
way  through  the  snow  to  Madison  Avenue,  which 
was  a  long  walk  (Morgan  never  had  carfare)  and 
mounting  the  five  flights  of  stairs,  to  his  friend's 
studio,  he  knocked  on  the  door.  He  knocked  once, 
and  he  knocked  twice ;  three  times ;  four  times ;  and 
five  times.  And  then  hearing  a  sound  within,  he  knew 
his  friend  was  there.  The  door  opened  just  a  crack. 
The  artist  spoke  before  Morgan  had  a  chance. 

"Don't  make  a  noise,"  he  said,  softly.  "My 
wife  and  kid  are  down  to-night  and  they  are  both 
asleep.  They  came  in  town  to  shop  and  the  blizzard 
lasted  so  long  they  stayed  here  with  me." 

So  the  Man  went  down  the  five  flights  of  stairs  with 


124    MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

no  idea  where  he  was  going  to  spend  the  night.  It 
was  impossible  to  escape  the  eyes  of  the  burly  police- 
man in  such  a  storm,  for  no  matter  how  poor  the 
pedestrian  was,  he  always  had  the  appearance  of 
hurrying  home.  But  Morgan  had  no  home,  so  he 
did  not  appear  to  hurry.  The  policeman  demanded 
of  him  a  reason  why  he  was  out  in  the  storm,  and 
threatened  to  arrest  him  if  he  did  not  "  move  along 
quick."  But  Morgan  had  no  place  to  move.  Be- 
sides, he  was  very  cold.  So  because  he  was  sure  that 
he  might  buck  up  against  this  same  cop  again,  he 
said, 

"  Got  a  studio  over  here  on  21st  Street,  but  some- 
body is  in  it." 

"  That's  a  likely  story,"  answered  the  policeman. 
"  I  got  to  have  proof  that  you  ain't  hanging  around 
to  carry  out  some  job.     Guess  I  better  run  you  in." 

Morgan  thought  a  minute,  and  then  told  the  story 
of  how  he  had  been  to  a  friend's  house  on  Madison 
Avenue  and  that  he  thought  he  could  go  back  there 
for  proof  that  he  was  of  honorable  intentions.  This 
satisfied  the  policeman,  so  together  they  went  to  the 
Madison  Avenue  address  and  once  more  Morgan  as- 
sailed his  friend's  studio  door.  This  time  no  answer 
came,  and  after  much  knocking,  the  policeman  took 
him  by  the  arm  and  walked  him  downstairs. 

"  I  knew  you  was  stringing  me,"  he  said  gruffly. 
"  You  come  along  with  me  now." 

And  for  a  little  while  Morgan  did  walk  along  with 
him,  his  thoughts  busy  with  the  predicament  in  which 
he  found  himself.     Then  he  stopped. 


THE  MAN  I  KNEW  125 

"  I  don't  blame  you,"  he  began,  "  for  running  me 
in,  for  the  story  I  told  you  is  about  the  lamest  thing 
a  man  ever  put  over,  but  I  was  just  wondering  if  you 
would  come  along  with  me  to  my  studio  and  I'd  prove 
what  I  said  to  you." 

"  Sure,"  said  the  cop.  "  I'd  like  to  have  you  prove 
to  me  that  you're  on  the  level,"  and  so  they  turned 
their  faces  the  other  way  and  went  slowly  through 
the  blizzard  to  Morgan's  building  and  were  soon 
standing  in  front  of  his  studio  door.  It  was  then 
that  Morgan  spoke  in  a  very  low  tone. 

"  The  kid  that's  sleeping  in  here  is  a  bit  of  a  girl 
without  a  house  or  home,  and  I  s'pose  probably  she's 
dead  to  the  world,  and  I  was  wondering  if  I  just 
opened  up  the  door  and  you  peeked  in  and  saw  her 
if  that  would  be  enough  for  you  to  let  loose  your  hold 
on  me?  " 

"  Sure,"  said  the  cop.     "  Open  her  up." 

So  Morgan  took  out  his  key  and  dextrously  threw 
back  the  lock  without  a  sound.  And  then  he  said, 
"  I  know  she's  in  there,  and  there  ain't  no  use  in  my 
looking  in,  so  you  peek  in  and  satisfy  yourself." 

This  the  policeman  did,  and  his  head  came  back 
as  quickly  as  it  had  been  shoved  through  the  aper- 
ture.    Then  Morgan  softly  closed  the  door. 

"  She's  there,  all  right,"  said  the  policeman  in  a 
very  thick  voice.  "  Now  I'd  like  to  know  what  in 
hell  you're  going  to  do.    Ain't  you  got  any  money.''  " 

"  No,"  said  Morgan.     "  Haven't  got  a  cent." 

"  You  can't  stay  out  in  a  blizzard  all  night  even 
if  you  have  done  a  good  deed.     And  I  don't  like  to 


126    MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

rush  you  in  as  a  vagrant  either,  so  I  guess  it's  up  to 
me  to  let  you  have  fifty  cents  and  you  can  get  a  bed 
with  that." 

Then  Morgan  smiled  one  of  his  wide,  broad  smiles 
and  stuffed  his  old  pipe  full  of  tobacco  and  replied: 

"  I  don't  want  fifty  cents.  Twenty-five  will  get  me 
a  good  bed, — as  good  as  any  sailor  ever  slept  on,  and 
that's  good  enough  for  me." 

And  so  the  two,  the  officer  of  the  law  and  the  Man, 
went  down  the  long  flights  of  stairs  and  out  into  the 
blizzard  again  where,  in  one  of  the  many  cheap  hotels, 
Morgan  found  a  twenty-five-cent  bed,  and  the  police- 
man went  back  to  his  beat. 

As  Morgan  told  me  this  story,  he  continued  it 
thus: 

"  I  went  to  my  door  a  minute  ago  and  rapped, 
and  by  ginger,  she's  still  breathing  deep  and  the 
fact  is  I  thought  I'd  let  her  sleep  a  while.  It's  still 
snowing,  and  I  thought  you'd  give  me  a  cup  of  coffee 
and  a  piece  of  bread.  I  got  plenty  of  beans  in  there 
all  right,  but " 

"  Of  course  j^ou  can  have  all  you  want  to  eat, 
Morgan,"  I  replied,  very  near  tears,  for  it  seemed 
to  me  as  he  told  this  simple  tale  it  showed  the  solid 
character  of  the  old  sea-story  writer  more  than  any 
other  thing  could  do. 

Morgan  believed  he  had  many  enemies,  and  espe- 
cially did  this  belief  grow  in  the  last  few  years  of  his 
life.  A  small  compliment,  especially  if  paid  by  a 
woman,  would  raise  his  spirits  to  bounding  point. 
It  might  be  interesting  to  read  the  man's  idea  of 


THE  MAN  I  KNEW  127 

wooing  a  woman.  In  spirit,  Morgan  was  born  about 
a  thousand  years  too  late ;  in  genius,  possibly  at  the 
right  time,  or  a  little  too  early.  He  could  never 
figure  out  why  a  man  should  be  compelled  to  woo  a 
woman  in  the  ordinary,  civilized  way.  In  Morgan's 
idea,  a  man  was  a  superior,  dignified  being,  and  in 
every  way  more  highly  developed  than  a  woman.  If 
by  chance  he  made  this  argument  of  man's  superior- 
ity to  some  person  who  cared  enough  to  combat  him, 
he  would  haul  out  an  old  weather-beaten  Bible  and 
hunt  through  its  pages  until  he  had  found  some  verse 
which  held  up  as  a  beacon  light  to  the  world  the  su- 
periority of  men  and  the  inferiority  of  women.  I  can 
remember  his  using  some  pretty  strong  words  to  me 
at  times  trying  to  persuade  me  that  every  man  was 
pre-eminently  superior  to  every  woman,  and  one  day 
in  a  great  rage  he  expressed  his  views  thus : 

"  I  believe,"  said  he,  "  that  the  good  old  days  when 
a  man  made  his  cave,  slung  on  the  floor  the  skin  of  a 
beast,  and  roasted  over  the  fagots  its  flesh,  and  then 
went  to  his  neighbor's  house  to  find  the  woman  upon 
whom  he  had  centered  his  aff'ections  and  took  her  back 
with  him  by  force  will  return  again  before  many  years 
have  passed  by."  Morgan  informed  me  that  if  the 
woman  did  not  smile  upon  the  cave-man's  suit,  that 
made  no  diff'erence  at  all,  nor  would  it  make  any  dif- 
ference to  Morgan  if  he  had  lived  in  those  days,  for 
he  said  to  me,  straight-eyed  and  with  a  firm  setting 
of  that  bull-dog  mouth,  "  I  believe  that  a  woman 
likes  a  man  much  better  if  he  knocks  her  down  now 
and  then  and  gives  her  a  whipping  and  then  makes 


128     MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

love  to  her  afterwards,  than  she  does  if  he  follows  the 
beaten  path  of  civilization." 

At  this  point  I  ventured,  "  Is  that  the  way  you  woo 
women,  Morgan?" 

"  No,"  said  he,  sighing  deeply,  "  I  don't  know  how 
to  woo  'em  and  I  never  have  known  how." 


MORGAN  ROBERTSON'S  FAMOUS 
RECIPES 

Reference  is  made,  in  some  of  the  foregoing 
memoirs,  to  Morgan  Robertson  s  famous  dishes  pre- 
pared by  him  in  his  studio  cabin,  which  was  the  scene 
of  many  a  midnight  banquet.  As  a  result  of  con- 
siderable searching  and  with  the  help  of  Mrs.  Robert- 
son we  are  able  to  present  to  admirers  of  Morgan 
Robertson  recipes  for  some  of  the  well-known  dishes 
that  friends  of  Morgan  Robertson  enjoyed  in  the 
good  old  days.  We  publish  these  feeling  that  many 
readers  will  be  glad  to  avail  themselves  of  some  of 
the  dishes  that  made  Morgan  Robertson's  reputation 
as  a  cook  par  excellence  in  New  York's  Bohemia. 

BAKED  BEANS 

SORT  and  soak  beans  overnight.  In  morning  par- 
boil with  a  large  piece  of  salt  pork.  When  con- 
siderable salt  has  been  extracted  from  pork  and  beans 
rid  of  strong  taste,  strain  and  wash  in  cold  water. 
Return  to  fire  to  boil,  together  with  pork,  for  an- 
other hour.  When  tender,  add  a  tablespoonful  of 
salt,  a  tablespoonful  of  sugar,  and  a  half  tablespoon- 
ful of  paprika  (or  black  pepper).  When  seasoning 
has  become  thoroughly  mixed  with  beans,  place  in 
oven  and  cook  until  ready  to  serve. 

129 


130     MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

WELSH  RAREBIT 

Morgan  Robertson's  Favorite  Recipe 

Take  one-half  pound  of  rich  New  York  State 
cream  cheese,  break  into  small  pieces,  and  melt  in 
same  quantity  of  milk,  to  which  add  a  flat  table- 
spoonful  of  cornstarch  as  they  mingle.  Prepare 
toast.  Add  to  cheese  and  milk  one  large  tablespoon- 
ful  of  sap  sago  (or  green  cheese  grated).  When 
this  mixture  shows  an  indication  of  thickening  add 
a  tablespoonful  of  soda  or  saleratus.  When  these 
ingredients  have  been  cooking  for  another  minute 
pour  over  toasted  bread  and  serve. 

WELSH  RAREBIT 

Simple  Formula 

For  this  recipe  New  York  State  cream  cheese  is 
best,  which  should  be  strong  and  old,  but  not  too 
hard.  Break  into  small  pieces  and  melt  in  ale  over 
fire ;  proportions  being  half  a  cup  of  ale  to  each 
half  pound  of  cheese,  with  a  saltspoonful  of  soda. 
Stir  constantly  while  dissolving  and  when  mixture  has 
reached  the  proper  consistency  pour  over  toasted 
bread  and  serve. 

Instead  of  cooking  the  higher  seasonings  in  his 
rarebits,  Mr.  Robertson  prepared  a  mixture  of  mus- 
tard and  paprika  as  a  side  dish  so  that  the  condiment 
might  be  used  as  sparingly  or  plentifully  as  desired 
by  each  individual. 


MORGAN  ROBERTSON'S  RECIPES     131 

HUNGARIAN  GOULASH 

Peel  and  slice  one  onion.  Cook  until  brown  in 
about  three  tablespoonsful  of  fat  from  salt  pork. 
Take  onion  out  and  place  in  pot  two  pounds  of  lean 
beef,  cut  into  one-inch  pieces.  Stir  and  cook  the 
meat  until  slightly  browned.  If  any  fat  is  left  dis- 
card. Place  meat  in  agate  dish.  Add  one  pint  of 
boiling  water  and  one  teaspoonful  of  paprika.  Cover 
dish  and  place  in  oven.  Add  more  fat  to  the  frying- 
pan.  When  hot  brown  one  dozen  small  potatoes  (cut 
in  balls)  and  an  onion.  When  well  browned  add 
onion  to  meat.  After  onions  and  meat  have  been 
cooking  one  hour  add  a  teaspoonful  of  salt  and  the 
potatoes. 

POT  ROAST  BEEF 

Take  three  pounds  of  beef  (preferably  round). 
Cut  a  little  fat  away.  Fry  in  an  iron  pot  a  few 
minutes  on  all  sides.  Cut  gashes  in  beef  and  place 
in  gashes  small  pieces  of  salt  pork.  Tie  firmly.  Sea- 
son, cover  tightly  (previously  shaking  a  little  flour 
over  it  and  adding  enough  hot  water  to  half  cover 
the  beef).  Add  after  one  hour  slices  of  carrot,  cubes 
of  turnip,  if  so  desired.  Add  a  little  boiling  water 
at  intervals  to  prevent  burning.  Cook  slowly  for 
about  three  hours.  Remove  meat  and  vegetables  to 
platter,  add  gravy  and  serve. 

For  gravy,  have  your  flour  mixed,  ready  to  stir 
in  juices  of  meat.  Stir  until  quite  smooth,  and  serve 
as  above. 


132     MORGAN  ROBERTSON,  THE  MAN 

GRAVY  THICKENED 

Remove  meat  and  vegetables  to  platter.  Add  two 
tablespoonsful  of  flour  to  water  and  mix  to  a  thin 
paste.  Stir  in  juice  of  meat  and  cook  slowly  for 
three  to  five  minutes,  stirring  slowly  to  prevent 
burning. 


UNIVEESITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY, 
BERKELEY 


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